The other day I drove past Mustard’s Last Stand- one of the few remaining lunch spots in my childhood hometown in Colorado. As I passed the old sign, I was transported back to when I was 9 years old standing in line with my sister and dad waiting to order, my socks wet in my boots from the melting snow we had just sloshed through.
I remember watching another kid lift up her hotdog dripping with the tangy ketchup mustard combination I also planned to smother over mine.
When it was our turn, my sister and I quickly asked for our hotdogs and my dad stepped forward to place his order. His head injury meant that he pronounced each of his words slowly, stoping to search for words that didn’t come easily and sometimes using his finger in the air to draw the first letter to help his brain connect with the word.
I watched the cashier start squirming, his eyes darting around, not knowing what to do with all the extra space between my dad’s words. I prayed the interaction would be over soon. My dad handed over his cash and I turned to look over at the table by the window with anticipation.
But my dad continued.
He looked right at the cashier in his gentle, direct way and said, “You….. know…. You know… I… was hit…… by…..a….truck” and then he gave a little laugh and a smile. My cheeks burned with shame. I wanted to melt into the floor and disappear. “Oh.” The cashier responded meekly and we went and sat down.
Since that day at Mustard’s, there have been lots of other cashiers, and caregivers and case managers who have been a part of my dad’s life who take the time to listen with genuine curiosity, and banter with my dad and laugh with him at the mess of life. These are the people that I have spent decades working to emulate and grow towards from that ashamed little kid with a hot dog.
My dad showed me that day, how to rise out of who you think you’re supposed to be, into exactly who you are. I saw how the hiding only gives life to the shame. When I step more into who I am, instead of less, I’m more able to disrupt the shame of who I am, and who I’m not, and the shame for the privileges I don’t hold and shame for all the ones I do.
I’ve got so much more to share about this as understanding shame has motivated so much of the work we are now doing now in the arts and social justice realm- but more on that soon.
For now, here’s to being the best version of our imperfect selves!
