The Power of Presence

The first time I processed the words spoken to me on the playground was a day I will never forget.

At College Street Elementary School, I heard the chants:
“They are not your real parents.”

During that same school year, a letter was passed around during a church service that read, “Iris is a Cabbage Patch Kid.”

Those words stung and pierced my soul deeply.

A few days ago, a young lady shared a text message with me about a recent experience with an estranged biological family member.

“I know you can imagine how I felt—knowing I wasn’t really wanted.”

After reading her text, I thought about how we internalize the words others speak about our lives.

I can still describe the emotional experience of that afternoon on the playground.

I vividly recall choosing to ride the school bus to my grandmother’s house instead of going home, where my mother was waiting for me.

I remember getting off the bus, walking the dirt path to my grandmother’s house, and seeing her in the backyard washing clothes.

I remember feeling safe as I talked to my grandmother and recounted the words my childhood playmates had said to me.

“Cabbage Patch Kid.”
“…not your real parents…”

Those were the words that were spoken, but they were not the words that did the most damage to my soul. The words I replayed over and over again were the ones that lived beneath the surface of those chants.

Decades later, I have come to realize that more damage was caused by the words I internalized than by the words that were actually spoken.

When the young woman texted me and said she felt “not wanted,” I immediately recognized that paralyzing echo.

This time, it wasn’t the playground chants that my grandmother temporarily put to rest; it was the noise of the internal narratives.

What I heard was:

I didn’t belong.
I wasn’t loved.
I didn’t fit in.
I wasn’t worth keeping.

That was the moment shame began to whisper.

It was not what was said, but what I believed it meant.

My grandmother’s words are a balm I return to often.

When she realized why I was there, she let my mom know where I was. Then she went back to what she was doing, listening as I hovered close and watched her hands move steadily through the wash in the afternoon sun.

That image from the backyard is still etched in my mind. Grandma Mattie’s feet were firmly planted as she moved clothes from the metal washbucket into her blue-and-white wringer washing machine.

She kept feeding damp clothes through the wringer as I fed her the words that had stung me.

The rollers pressed and squeezed out what did not belong, just as her words pressed truth and love into me.

In her words, she answered the mystery of my adoption, but her presence was so solid and strong that I knew in that moment that I belonged.

My grandmother did not silence the world or the playground chants, but she made sure I understood the power and importance of presence.

There was a difference between what was said and what actually took root in my life.

Mean words were spoken on the playground, and shame began to grow as a result of what I heard.

But that afternoon, belonging took root.

And for that, I am grateful.