I may have been 10 or 11 years old at the time. Sitting in the church sanctuary with my parents, listening to the pastor review the 10 Commandments, the one about “Thou shall not lie” was his particular emphasis. He told the story of a woman congregant who approached him one day and asked him if he thought she was beautiful. The pastor paused the story to remind us that we shall not lie. Even at my young age, I understood where he was going with this. Apparently, our pastor felt this woman looked like a bucket of bolts, for he finished the story by saying, in effect. “I could not lie and tell her I found her beautiful in appearance, but I did tell her I thought she had a beautiful spirit.” What? I was stunned. I remember thinking, just lie for Pete’s sake! I had no idea, of course, who this woman was, but I wondered how she felt after hearing, “Nope, I can’t say you’re beautiful on the outside because, you know, I can’t lie and all that. But I bet you’re beautiful inside.” What a bunch of garbage, I thought to myself. This was my first lesson in needless religious fundamentalism and the beginning of my education in how women feel about themselves. And how badly that can go.
After closing my advertising agency 20 years ago, I re-entered the corporate world as a National Account Manager. Every Monday, our boss would gather the team together for a sales meeting. On one such morning, the boss stopped his exposition on sales techniques, looked straight at me, and said, “So, Bonnie, I can tell by your face you don’t agree with me.” Not only was I embarrassed in front of my 20-some-odd coworkers, but I was also stunned that, for some reason, my face conveyed an incorrect message. Admittedly, I was older than many who sat in the meeting, older than my boss. I began to wonder if my age was showing and pondered if this was the beginning of silent age discrimination. In any event, I made sure that in future meetings, I would do what I could to make my face appear more cheerful without plastering on an idiot grin. You know, of course, how stupid this was on my part.
I was dating a guy in college who once said, “I can’t figure out why I’m so drawn to you because you’re not very pretty,” I don’t recall hearing further comments from him as the relationship came to prompt close. Years later, I would receive a poem from an admirer with words something like this: “I’ve been with prettier women, but you are the one I loved the best.” He felt awful afterward, realizing that poetry might not be his forte.
I left the workforce two years ago. The timing wasn’t my preference. I had a boss who was a bully. His name was Timm. Yes, Tim with two m’s. That oughta tell you something. He called me into his office one day to inform me he didn’t like my face, he didn’t like my facial expressions or body language, and if I was to continue working at the company, I had better change things up. I sat there listening to this moron, thinking, “Please, please say something about my age because I’d love to own this company.” Alas, his discrimination only went so far, and the millions of dollars that sparkled in my eyes were only in my imagination. I did, however, report him to HR. I told them I was handing in my resignation due to his discriminating personal comments. HR pleaded with me to stay so they could “investigate the matter further.” This 5-foot idiot, who probably used a step stool to get into his SUV, already had an HR file as thick as my thigh, I reminded them. And how was I to change my face for this jerk, I asked? I did mention something about money: a nice settlement before calling in an attorney. HR put some thought to that, very quickly, I might add, and decided that working things out with me directly would be the more advisable road to take. One week after I left, Timmmmm was fired. I received private emails from co-workers with words of thanks, as though my intent all along was to fall on my own sword for the betterment of the office morale—quite the contrary. I had to stand up. No one could do it for me; I either stand or fall by myself.
Not long after this surprise retirement, I met with a friend who suggested I start a blog. “About what,” I asked? “Well, ” she replied, “you know, write for people your age.” I wasn’t quite sure how to assimilate the suggestion. Was there an assumption that the thoughts, emotions, successes, and failings of older people (whatever that means) have value only unto themselves? Or that I had some expertise in the matter? I may have been newly retired, but I felt I had been placed in a box. Again. Age or what I look like.
Aging is weird. No one thinks about it until they “get there.” I didn’t think about aging until I noticed one eyelid was starting to droop, which sent me rushing to the internet for every imaginable miracle cream. There aren’t any if you’d like to know, but I have drawers filled with bottles of unkept promises. I stare in the mirror, realizing that my face is changing right before my eyes. And I remember all those past words – about my face.
Recently, I pulled out all the pictures of my parents, and of their parents and theirs, too. Photographs of my parents go back to their youth. I can “watch” them age over the years. I recall the many times my mom would look in her mirror and mutter, “Oh, Gawd!” I’m not sure my father ever did that. Maybe. One doesn’t hear men complaining about their faces. If they care, they don’t say. The fame of youth, the adoration of the perfect look, seems to be reserved for women. And we can become obsessed to the point of surgeries and injections that change our faces in ways that natural aging can’t achieve. For me, it’s bangs or botox. I figure I’d be the one who got all the side effects of botox, so bangs it is.
These are the faces of my great-grandparents on my Mackenzie side. His face reflects the struggle of hard work and worry of a man who immigrated from Scotland to rebuild a new life. Hers is a face of confidence, faith, and strength. I love their faces, for each speaks silently of who they were. Yet Margaret, Maggie as she was called, pulls me in. Beauty shines in her directness to the camera; the slight tilt of her head speaks of kindness, an invitation to feel her love.
Even generations apart, I can see I inherited her downturned mouth, hooded eyes, and high cheekbones. It’s that downturned mouth that causes people to ask if I’m angry or upset. There’s obviously nothing I can do about my face, but it’s annoying that I have to respond that I’m not angry, or I disagree with something said, that I’m not upset. It’s just my face. So many assumptions! I’m not often asked those questions anymore because we’re all wearing masks. I get to hide now.
But this isn’t about faces. This is about the power of words. Maya Angelou wrote: “People will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel.” I have a mind like a steel trap. I remember words and actions – and I have never forgotten how they made me feel. My life-long insecurities offer me the poison apple of words, putting asleep all that I know to be true about myself, the goodness I can share, and the talent I have. I have become comatose to the real me; my uplifting friends’ and family’s belief in me far surpass what I think or feel about myself.
Words are indeed powerful, perhaps even more so today than at any other time in our recent history. One ill-spoken word, and the next thing you know, you have been given a label. A word label that generalizes who you might be, not necessarily who you are. There indeed are some people who speak such hatred that one can believe it’s the condition of their heart and soul we hear. But generally, I’m not sure people are taking the time to find out who we really are, deep inside, the internal machinery of our experiences and feelings.
My mother was, I think, conditional in her words of affection. She loved me, but I was never convinced she loved what I looked like. I’ve always struggled with my weight; mom never did. She was petite and lovely. I tended towards pudgy, and I think her in eyes, a bit bedraggled. During one of my “heavier” times, she once joked that she hoped she died before me so she wouldn’t have to watch the flatbed truck transport my coffin to the cemetery. See? I remember those words. My dad, in his last years of anger and dementia, told me to go to his house and retrieve my late mother’s jewelry; “Grab it now before your brother’s wife does. The jewelry has always belonged to you.” When I did as he asked, he called me a thief and did so up to the day he died. I know it was dementia speaking, but it’s not his words of permission I playback, but the thief label. Stupid, I know, but I hear it, nonetheless. And I have fought with my weight all my life because, well, you know, that flatbed truck thing.
The banner on this website tells us to imagine a new life. I’ve always taken those words to mean that we all have the opportunity to find joy within ourselves, to have self-compassion, to forgive ill-spoken and hurtful words, and better yet, to speak new words to ourselves. It’s not so much that I need to find a new way of living, as in finding a job or something specific to do, but rather to imagine new words and believe in who I really am. I have a circle of friends who encourage me at every turn. Yet, until I can encourage myself, I think I will continue to ask far too many questions of myself – am I talented enough, am I a writer in the true sense, or merely someone who occasionally dabbles in words? Am I enough?
The other day I met a neighbor in the check out line in the grocery store. She lives alone now; her husband passed some years ago. The first words out of her mouth were not “Hi, Bonnie.” No, she immediately told me how lonely she was, how unhappy, and I think she may have had tears in her eyes. We have never been close friends; she a woman of strident words, but as I drove home, I thought of her loneliness and wondered what I might offer her. I decided to write her a long text, suggesting she add something rewarding to her life. She’s written several business books, so I knew she had the writing talent and suggested she write her memoir. Our exchange surprised us both, I think. She was so thankful I took the time to reach out to her, thought a memoir was an excellent idea and how beautifully I wrote my text-letter. As I read my text to her, I laughed out loud, “ya know? I did write that well!” Whoa! New words! I said something good about myself. Go figure.
I struggle every day to re-discover the real me, to recognize my self-worth, to believe in my abilities despite the drooping eyelids and increasing wrinkles – to see beyond what I may look like, to hear beyond the words of the past, to imagine a new life of new words, words that I can speak to and about myself. It’s not an easy task. It takes everything I have to speak well about myself. My writer friends believe there’s a book somewhere within me. I’m not sure about that, but they believe in my writing, so I guess I should, too.
I could try to believe. I could try to say to myself the words they speak to me. It’s worth a shot.
And let’s face it, it might be worth a shot for you, too.
The time will come
when, when with elation,
you will greet yourself arriving
at your own door, in your own mirror,
and each will smile at the other’s welcome,
and say, sit here. Eat.
You will love again the stranger who was
your self.
-Derek Walcott-
Again.. another moving and inspiring story. You are enough. You are more than enough and deep down, you know it. If you need to hear it everyday, I will do that. You already know my stance on the book and your writing… so I’ll leave you with this: Believe in yourself over all other things and let Karma do the rest to those who do not.
Beautifully written, as usual, Bonnie! And, by the way, you just as beautiful on the outside as you are on the inside!!!
Betsy
I have aways thought of you as attractive…as though you were a Miss Something…Homecoming Queen…wore a crown, pretty. But that isn’t what drew me to you…it was the light shining from within, that sparkle…it was accepting, welcoming, open…comfortable, witty and charming, intelligent. Some folks don’t know that you have to be extra sharp to be quick witted. And so dear Bonnie, now you know what you are to me. Do with it what you will.
You, dear one, are extraordinary. Thank you for sharing yourself with us. Love you so much!!
I loved this. Absolutely beautiful. You, and your writing ❤️
Very nice writing but I feel I must say as Yoda would “Do or do not, there is no try!” That is belief and you can “do” it! Worthiness is a different story. Only you know if you are worthy. Others just have opinion.
Also, cousin, I must point out that those are the photos of our great grandparents, great-great would be John & Catherine! I heartily agree with your assessments of their faces. Don’t forget that Coco Chanel said …at 50 you get the face you deserve! Yours is beautiful.