Toenails Have a Purpose

As a young girl, I lived in a family of seven with a father, mother, three brothers and one sister.  We had a nice home in a good neighborhood with a good school district, food to eat and clothes on our backs. But it seemed that the other children in our neighborhood had things we didn't have.  We didn't have many toys, we only went on a couple of vacations over the years, we didn't have birthday parties, we never ate in a restaurant, and my mother sewed a lot of our clothes herself.  My father worked hard as a Machinist who worked in a factory and, having been a child of the depression era, he lived a frugal life.

At the start of 3rd grade, he bought me a new set of crayons for school.  They were these imitation wax crayons that didn't color as well as other crayons.  They weren't what the other kids had, Crayola boxes of 64 crayons with the crayon sharpener built into the back.  But they were new and they were mine.  Being the fourth out of five children, many of the things that I did have were hand-me-downs. So having brand new crayons meant a lot to me.

One day our teacher, Mrs. Williams, who was very close to the end of her teaching career, asked us to split up into our reading groups.  There were cardboard containers on the windowsill that had soft covered reading books that were color coded to various levels of reading ability.  I was supposed to go over to get a reading book and then join my group at a round table at the back of the room.  But first I was putting away my crayons when two boys, Mark and Jeff (those are their real names, so if they ever read this they will know who they are . . .), took my crayons and threw them under a heavy wooden bookcase filled with books at the front of the room.  Of course, I started crying and tried to retrieve my crayons, but some had rolled too far under the bookcase for me to reach.  As the boys laughed, I tried to move the heavy bookcase to get behind it.

When the bookcase fell, it fell quickly.  All of me got out of the way except for the big toe on my right foot.  The heavy bookcase fell onto my toe and crushed it.  The sound brought Mrs. Williams running to the front of the room.  I suppose old Mrs. Williams, or maybe the boys, lifted the bookcase off of my toe but I don't remember.  I do remember her carrying me to the nurse's office and I could tell that her whole body was shaking as she tried to carry me.  The nurse called my mother, but my mother didn't drive and my father was at work.  Instead, my mother sent my 19 year old brother to come and get me.  He attempted to carry me all the way home, but he had to put me down once or twice on my broken toe so that he could rest.  Ouch!

My mother called the doctor and he told her to soak my toe.  That night my toenail fell off and I learned that there is a purpose to toenails.  Toenails cover a million nerve endings and without a toenail, any time something touches your toe, your toe screams!  I couldn't go to school for a while and classmates would bring my work home to me.  I remember doing workbooks with my mother at home and enjoying the time she spent with just me.

Eventually, I went back to school but I never did find all of my crayons that year.

Epilogue:

When my daughter was ready to go to school, the school sent home a list of supplies that she would need.  The list included a box of 36 crayons.  Instead of buying her a box of 36 crayons, I bought her the New Crayola box of 96 crayons with the built-in crayon sharpener.  After all, you can never have too many colors!  Right?  Well, that's what I thought, until one day she came home from school with a poor grade on a test.  When I asked her why she had done so poorly she said, "I dropped my crayons and it took so long to pick them up, I didn't have time to finish the test."

The next year, I bought her the box of 36 crayons that the school requested.  This brings to mind the story of Goldilocks and the Three Bears.  Sometimes having too little or too much of something has its consequences, when perhaps all we need is "just right" in the middle.

Several years ago I was on a ladies Bowling league when I met an elderly lady who was on one of the teams.  It turned out she was Mark's mother.  I told her about the crayons and the bookcase and she went home and asked her son about it.  She came back the next week and told me that he said he didn't remember it happening.  I said, "That's because it wasn't his toe that broke."

A Day of Her Life

She spent the day worrying.  She worried about her mother.  She worried about her children.  She worried about her husband.  She worried about her future.  She felt sick with the worry.  She didn't take the time to go for a quiet walk because she was worried that there wasn't enough time.  She didn't enjoy her lunch because she was worried.  She snapped at her children because she was worried.  She argued with her husband because she was worried.  She didn't move forward with her dream because she was worried about failing. She worried about what others would think about her. Her head started to ache and her stomach tied itself in knots because she was worried.  She lost a day of her life in worry and what did she gain?  Nothing.  What did she lose?  She lost a day of her life.

The Masquerade

Her father drops her off at the high school dance.  She walks reluctantly toward the school, looking back once, than twice.  He waves to her and smiles, encouraging her to go in.

The gym is dark at night and the music is throbbing through the crowd.  She wonders if her shoes look right with her dress.  Is her dress too short?  Too long?  All the faces are familiar, she has known them for years.  They have perfect faces, perfect bodies.  None of them are too tall, too short, too fat, or too plain.  None of them are like her.  She sees how they all laugh, talking to each other while she stands outside of the group, observing.  The girls giggling in the center, the boys circling around.  Why is it that this is all so easy for them and so hard for her?

Her heart is beating through her chest.  She walks through the crowd, hoping someone will smile at her.  Perhaps someone will see her.  But she is invisible.

Then she realizes that she is wrong.  They do see her.  She is not invisible.  She imagines what their thoughts are when they look at her.  They must be glad that they are not her.  They must be glad that they have friends.  They must be glad for her existence.  Because of her very existence, they are elevated in the eyes of their peers.

She closes her eyes and dances as she walks, trying to blend in.  She bumps into another girl.  "I'm sorry."  She shouts above the noise.  "That's okay."  Comes a reply.  Did she imagine it?  Did the girl smile at her?  Testing, she attempts a conversation.  "The D.J. is really good!  I love this music!"  To her surprise, the girl replies, "Do you want to dance with us?"  Exhilarated, she joins in.  She is dancing.  She is smiling.  She is even exchanging a word or two.  An outsider watching might even think she looks like she belongs.  But inside, her stomach is knotted and her mind is racing.  What should she say next?  How does she keep their attention?  She strings one moment to the next. Savoring it for as long as it lasts.

But the moment passes and the girls move on.  Not knowing what else to do, she winds her way through the crowd to the wall.  She stands there and watches.  She is not really in the room, she is hiding in her mind.  She thinks, not one of them knows or cares who she really is.  So why should she care?  Why should she even try anymore?  She is better off alone where no one can hurt her.

The dance ends and she climbs back into her father's car.  "How was the dance?"
She sits quietly for a while.  "Dad?  Why am I so different from them?"  He smiles at his daughter, "You're not different."  He explains, "People wear many masks.  It is easier to go through life when you can hide behind a mask.  It takes much more courage to face the world without one."