I saw him today. His eyes still twinkled with that warm glow, the smile around his mouth so intense that it reached the creases of his eyes. The years had passed and much had changed, yet the warmth and grace that his voice extended spoke the same song of acceptance and acknowledgement it had spoken all those years ago. His wasn't the first voice that had spoken, but for some reason his was the first I had heard — really heard. The first that began the softening process. The first that spoke back to the critic, so the critic heard.
The critic wasn't always there. The voices began as encouraging and hopeful voices — full of excitement, anticipation and a sense that the world was filled with wonder and amazement. Mine was a world filled with creativity and curiosity. I loved to hear the stories of times gone by and imagine myself living in times such as these. I dreamt these stories in the night as I pictured my street being filled with the homes of my uncles and aunts, cousins, and grandparents, living harmoniously, united in community. Stories spoke to me deeply and intensely, weaving themselves into the fibre of my being.
The library was a wonderful place. 'It was home to so many fantastic stories. As I walked the twelve blocks to the library every week, I anticipated with every step the astonishing things I would discover there. I would kneel in front of the bookcases, creeping along the floor to ensure that I didn't miss a single book. One never knew what brilliant gem the lowest shelf might hold.
As a child of an immigrant family, German was my first language. However, I don't ever recall a time when I didn't understand English. I know the time existed, but in my childhood mind, I had always spoken two languages. And so, I moved from grade to grade, speaking English at school and German at home, fluently reading in both languages.
Then came Grade 4. It was to be a fantastic year. I was a child who was keen to please. I enjoyed building a connection with my teacher and knowing that I was valued. I worked hard to do well in my schoolwork and obediently respected the authority that my teachers held, never questioning commands or assignments. I had been taught from young on that authority was to be respected and part of respect was to obey. And so I did what I was told, for I was a good and obedient
As a lover of books, I eagerly awaited the distribution of our new readers every year, revelling in the increased difficulty level and never content just to look at the cover. And so the day in Grade 4 came when we received our readers. The readers were handed out alphabetically, as they were every year. Those with last names at the beginning of the alphabet received the new books and those, like me, with names at the end of the alphabet received the well-loved copies. As always, we were all given the same title — one large and fabulous book filled with stories to be dismantled and savoured.
But this year was different. A select group of students was given a supplementary book to read. I stared at the books, knowing that I must have one. I yearned to hold one of the new books — to open it, to page through it, to experience the wonders that the stories might hold! I had to get myself a copy of the second reader. But how? I was a shy child who had been taught to observe and listen. Having been taught to respect the authority of teachers, how could I ask for this book that had not been offered to me?
Yet the burning desire to have one of these additional books won out as I mustered the courage to walk to my teacher's desk. I hesitantly approached her and asked if I too might be able to have one of the new readers. I waited with bated breath, pleading with her in my heart to let me have one. Her response was short. "That is for the advanced readers," she said, "It will be too hard for you." She needed to say no more. Her few short words had spoken into my anticipating heart a wound that would go unrecognized for many years.
The year continued uneventfully. We moved onto other subjects and the readers were forgotten. I was determined to work harder than ever to ensure that I would again be in the top of the class. My friendly competitor and best friend was in the other Grade 4 class. We both worked hard on each assignment and exam, ensuring that we had the top mark in our class. Our competition was friendly, but fierce, and we spurred each other on to greatness. I had worked so hard, diligently ensuring that my marks were at the top of the class. I could feel the excitement building in my spirit as I thought about the Award Ceremony. It would be a great day!
On the day of the Award Ceremony, our class filed into the gym for an assembly. Each division gave out an Award for "Outstanding Student." Additional merit awards such as "Outstanding Athlete" and the "Friendship Award" were distributed as well, but only one per grade. I didn't care about those awards. I was sure the "Outstanding Student" Award was mine and that was all that mattered to me. And so, the ceremony began. With each Award that was distributed, I tried to stay calm as I waited. I rejoiced with my best friend as she received the "Outstanding Student" award for her division and knew that my moment would soon be here.
"And the Outstanding Student Award for Grade 4, Division B goes to Maria Rossi. I was stunned. It couldn't be... Maria was nice. She was smart too. But I knew that my grades had been higher than hers. it just made no sense. I sat in stunned and humiliated silence as the awards continued to be handed out. We had moved to the Grade-wide merit awards and Maria had just received the Outstanding Athlete Award as well, but it all didn't matter to me anymore.
Something had gone wrong... horribly wrong...and I just wanted to leave. The anticipation of something splendid became overwhelming waves of sadness and disappointment; waves that threatened to crash over the walls. I felt like I was going to cry. And then I heard it... "The Friendship Award goes to Heidi Wall!" Somehow my body must have moved forward and accepted the award, but my spirit was quiet.
We filed out of the gym and made our way back to our class. My best friend tried to talk to me on the way back, but I was too confused and humiliated to speak to her. As I walked in silence, praying that no one else would try to talk to me, my teacher came alongside me. I just needed to hold it all together; to look 'fine" and this moment would pass. "You might wonder why you didn't get the Outstanding Student Award," she said. "You really did have the highest marks in the class. But we thought you should have the Friendship Award. And it just wouldn't be fair to the other students if you got two awards, so we decided to give the Outstanding Student Award to someone else — to give someone else a chance to get an award." I nodded and smiled, hoping the faint smile on my face that felt more like a tearful grimace would be enough to placate her so she would just leave me alone.
I made it through the day, emotionally exhausted and relieved to finally be able to run home. I just wanted to sit at the kitchen table, watching my mom make dinner, and have my milk and bread. Over my snack I told my mom about the Award Ceremony and how Maria had gotten two awards and I had not gotten the one I really wanted. I don't know what my mother said. I think my heart had already stopped listening. My wounded heart was numb and incapable of hearing anything other than the voice that roared at me, telling me that it would be too hard for me, that I wasn't really all that smart, and that at least I was nice.
So it went for many years — working hard to be the best, yet never feeling good enough; getting great marks, but never believing that they were well deserved. I worked hard, blissfully unaware of Grade 4 Voice and the damage it had inflicted in my heart and spirit.
The years came and went, and with every New Year and every new experience, t strove to learn and grow. I wanted to do my best. And I knew that my best was an A. So that was what I demanded of myself.
Elementary School became Middle School and Middle School became High School. It was in High School that I met my first voice that would counter Grade 4 Voice — Mr. Smith. For some reason, he thought that I could write the scholarship exams and get a scholarship. I knew I could never do it, but his persistence and anger at my reluctance kicked me into Compliant and Obedient Child mode and I agreed to write the exams. Much to my surprise, I got a scholarship.
Exams came to an end, and the days — which once seemed like they would never end — were now behind me. High School Graduation was upon us. So we filed again into the large auditorium, this time with our family and friends cheering us on. The speeches began, the Graduation Certificates were distributed, and the choir sang. It was a fabulous day of connection and belonging. I watched as people went up to receive their awards for work well-done. The assembly was coming to a close and it was time for the last two awards of the day.
The Dr. T.R. Pelton Memorial Award was the largest trophy I had ever seen. As Principal Long began describing the individual to whom this wonderful piece would belong, I looked around. I was sure it would be Sierra. It must be. She was so bright. Who else could it be? I could think of no one else who would have top marks. But wait! The name they called was not Sierra's. As a matter of fact, it sounded remarkably like "Heidi Wall."
Friends nearby were starting to clap as they looked at me, encouraging me to go up on stage. I started to shake. Something was wrong... Something was horribly wrong. Yet I walked up to the stage, feeling like an impostor, and accepted the award. I also accepted the Governor General's Bronze medal, which followed the Pelton Award.
The graduation pictures with my family followed, my proud parents ensuring that the wonderful trophy and medal were in each picture — truly a moment to be proud of. And yet why did I feel like such a fraud, I wondered. I was sure there had been a terrible mistake made. I would have to be honest and ensure that the mistake was corrected.
I booked an appointment with Mr. Long to inform him of his grave error and to ensure that he corrected this offence. Yet he just smiled at me and told me that if I needed proof, he could show me the calculations they had performed to discern which student had the highest percentage average. He assured me that no error had been made, but that the trophy and medal were rightly mine. I was confused and uncertain about what to do with this information I had been given, so I filed it away, smiled and left the office. I guess they just really liked me.
The summer was a whirlwind of activity, not giving me much time to process this puzzling experience. packed my bags, packed some boxes for shipping and prepared for my adventure to my brother's Alma Mater. Even the threat of -40-degree winter days couldn't cool my excitement.
But Grade 4 Voice had an uncanny ability to freeze even the warmest of emotions. I soon began to realize that "nobody ever taught me how to think!" It seemed like I knew all the right things to think, but I was convinced that I really did not know how to think. Grade 4 Voice added loudly to this confusion as it howled at me, trying to intimidate me with its ferocious attacks on my abilities, intelligence, and personhood. Although my marks were good, I was convinced that my professors just gave me good marks because I was so nice. After all, I wasn't really all that smart.
Yet I continued to timidly allow my creative spirit to peak out for small moments. I had allowed my creative voice to emerge as I prepared my sermon for our chapel service. As I read the whole sermon to my parents over the long-distance phone line, the affirmation I sought did not come quite as expected. "It's good." These little words were once again drowned out by the snarl of Grade 4 Voice. But Obedient Girl couldn't back out of a promise made, so I delivered my sermon to my schoolmates and professors — a packed chapel service.
It was then that he spoke. One lone voice that didn't realize the strength and clarity of his words. "Why don't you come by my office after chapel, and we can talk about how it went." I went. Partly in hope of encouragement, but mostly in fear of failure I went.
Yet I was completely unprepared for the words I would actually hear. The words that offered a healing balm to the wounds so long ago inflicted. Words that affirmed my intelligence, encouraged my abilities, strengthened my character, and left me mystified and disoriented.
Everything that had so long ago become true of me was being questioned. Was he saying it because I was just such a nice person? Yet there seemed such genuineness, openness, and honesty in what he said. I could not file this one away in the "Because they like me" file as I had done with the T.R. Pelton Trophy four years earlier.
Over the years, there were a few voices that spoke encouragement, but only this one managed to cut a minuscule opening into the ice palace. One voice that spoke with power and transparency. One voice that said, "You did that really well." One voice that cut a small chink in my protective armour.
There were other voices that followed: the voice of my counselling professor, affirming my superb listening skills; the voice of my business partner, entrusting her reputation to me by sharing a counseling practice; the voices of co-workers, telling me how much they appreciated working with me; and the voices of clients telling me how I had made them feel safe. Each voice took part in the softening process.
Then the day came that I could finally say it. That I could state, "I feel like an impostor." There. After all these years, I had finally said it. And the reaction surprised me. I didn't fall apart. I didn't self-destruct. And no one screamed. No one ran from the room in fear. No one even seemed to blink. Rather, they told me how they too had felt inadequate and like an impostor. These people I so admired! They were like me, and I was like them. And I was good at what I did.
The softening had brought me to a point where the healing could take place. I was free to be myself — to think, to question, to believe that I could do it, to know that I was smart, and to share myself freely as "Heidi, fearfully and wonderfully made." it was my gift from God. God's love and healing incarnate. I saw him today and he didn't know the significance of his voice from so long ago. But I saw him today and the critic was silenced.
And so, Grade 4 Voice no longer roars to drown out all others. Rather, Creator's love lives on in my heart and my spirit, growing ever stronger. The still, small voice speaks love, compassion and acceptance to a heart that yearns for connection. The healing process has begun, and I can say that I am not an impostor or a fraud. I am unique. I am wonderful. I am fearfully and wonderfully made. And as I speak these words, my creative spirit and tender heart find the connection, the acceptance, the value for which they have yearned.
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