I will never forget the first time I ever truly felt bad about who I was. It was a cold January day just 3 months shy of my 7th birthday. My family had moved from a tiny town deep in south Georgia to a small suburb of Columbus, Ohio for my dad’s job.

I left my old first grade class behind in the temporary winter refrain from the sweltering Georgia heat to attend Mark Twain Elementary school.

Mom let me pick out all of my outfits and curl and style my hair starting the second half of kindergarten. So by the time she got up to brew her morning coffee, I stood in front of my bedroom mirror decked out in light blue corduroy high waist pants with tiny pink triangles and a soft white turtleneck with ruffled shoulders. Paired with my brand new high top kangaroo sneakers. I bound down the stairs with a toothless grin. I loved school and could not wait to meet what would surely be my new life-long friends.

“Rebecca Kristen,” my mother said in her stern voice. “You cannot wear those shoes to school. It’s snowing outside.” Handing me the ugliest, brownist, pair of snow boots she said, “I got these last night at the Golden Circle. Put them on.”

We argued for a few rounds about how the boots didn’t go with my outfit and how uncomfortable they were. But, ultimately I was 7, so off I went to my first day at a new school with my stylish esembe covered by ugly brown boots and a hideous purple down puffy coat.

When I got to school I was relieved to drop my ugly outerwear at my cubby. I knew first impressions were everything as I confidently glided to my assigned desk showcasing my signature style. When the bell rang for recess I couldn’t wait to get outside and talk up my classmates.

I watched as the other first graders raced to their cubby’s to bundle up in jackets, hats, gloves, and other equally ugly snow boots. I mimicked their moves and discovered that a Rainbow Brite knit beanie with a purple rim and a unicorn tail that flowed out the top was hidden in my jacket pocket. My grandmother had gotten my sister and I the movie on VHS the Christmas before and it was our absolute favorite. Thanks mom!

The last out the door, full FOMO had set in as I sprinted across the playground to join the other kids. All of the sudden my feet were scrambling underneath me trying desperately to grip the ground. I didn’t know what was happening, but soon after my behind hit the snow, hard. I had never seen snow before that morning, much less been on frozen ground. I guess running is a big N.O. in Ohio.

A crowd of first graders, my new classmates, heard the commotion and had carefully made their way to me across the frozen tundra these mid-westerners called a playground. Here it was. My first impression on my new class.

“What happened?” one of the boys said. “Are you okay?” asked a squeaky voiced girl. “You sure took a tumble,” said a blonde shadow figure hovering above me with a lisp.

“I’m ok,” I said. I’ve never been in snow. It’s so slick.” But, I didn’t say that exactly. What these 15 first graders from Ohio heard was something more like this. “Ayeeemmm oowkaay. Ayee’ve naaver biiin een thu sno-ow. It’s so-ow sl -ee-ck.” Laughter erupted and echoed across the crisp January air.

What happened next is sort of a blur. Some kid said I sounded stupid. Another asked if I was speaking english. Some of the kids remained quiet. But, everyone glared at me in judgment as though I was an alien. Then one by one the kids started demanding that I say different words out loud for them. Say “table” “taay-bull”. How a bout “dog?” “Dawwg,” I’d respond shyly with my eyes glued to the ground. Cue uproarious laughter over and over again.

I could feel the tears start to sting my cheeks after 5 rounds of '‘say this say that”. But, I was too cold to fully cry. My Rainbow Brite hat had been thrown a few feet away in the fall. I crawled towards the snow covered tail turning my body and face away from the crowd.

I know what you’re thinking. Where the hell was your teacher and why were you allowed outside in the dead of winter anyway? I honestly don’t know. But, it was the late eighties and the supervision of children was subpar at best.

Eventually Miss what’s her name teacher finally decided to do her job and came over to see what happened. She helped me up and then lectured me about how to conduct myself in the snow the entire shameful walk back to the classroom.

I’m pretty sure she called my mom because the same lecture was repeated when I got home to find my younger sister on our coffee table pretending to be She-Ra. Instead of joining her for reruns and snacks as we usually did every afternoon, I had to endure in some sort of snow etiquette class.

We never talked about the kids making fun of me or how it made me feel. I had to just deal.

Later that weekend my mom left the house with my little sister for the morning so Dad was in charge. Still in our PJs we curled up in the den with a sleeve of Oreos and two perfectly low and wide dunking glasses.

As the snow started falling he pulled down the shades and announced that he had recorded a very special movie called Star Wars that I, almost 7 was now old enough to watch. The movie started and the booming music, the cinematography, and the characters had me hooked immediately. But, the most exciting thing about this galaxy far, far, away was a character named Princess Leia.

She was beautiful, powerful, and didn’t take any crap from man, machine, or alien which is my kind of hero. But, most importantly she spoke in a completely clear voice with a slightly British lilt. I was captivated so I started to study her.

I’ve always had great recall so by the end of my first viewing I was reciting, “Help me, Obi-Wan Kenobi. You’re my only hope” and “Aren’t you a little short for a storm trooper?” in my bathroom mirror.

Eventually I taught myself how to speak in a standard American accent, with an occasional British lilt. But, the damage had already been done.

Sadly that little incident in the snow changed how I socialized dramatically. I withdrew and became quiet in class. Once a Type A front of the room hand-raiser, I was afraid to use my voice because I now knew there was something wrong with it.

Shame is a learned behavior. We don’t enter the world with the idea that we should apologize for what we say, how we act, how we look, or who we are.

The first people to teach us shame is our parents. It’s not necessarily hearing the word “no” or being warned that your sibling needs space that teaches shame. Boundaries are something we inherently understand, respect and even need.

Instead it’s the body language we use and the tone we attach to those words that introduce the idea that we should feel bad about ourselves and our actions.

Shame is a form of learned passive aggressive control that’s passed down from one generation to the next. We learn from our parents, other adults, and even strangers the right voice, stare, sigh, sarcastic comment, and timing needed to inflict shame upon others. In turn we learn to feel unquestionably ashamed when others inflict it on us.

I never recovered from my shame. Despite my family’s multi-generational southern roots, I never sounded like I belonged to them again. Eventually, we moved back to Georgia and I graduated from a high school just north of Atlanta. But unlike most of my classmates I had left the syrupy sweet song-like twang of “ya’ll” for “you guys.”

The worst thing about it all was that those 15 kids taught me to believe that sounding and being from the low-country was bad. I was lesser than they and so were my parents and my entire family. I changed myself because I was told being different was wrong. When we moved back I looked down upon them like they had to me because that’s what I learned.

So if you see someone being bullied don’t just think that’s just kids being kids. They learned to bully from you.

So let’s stop the cycle of shame. Let’s learn to be clear with each other about what we want and how we feel. And let’s learn to communicate that with kindness so that the next generation doesn’t have to read between the lines of shame and guilt. Let’s make sure that future voices are heard loud and clear and unchanged.

Abundantly,

BE.