This story begins about 36 years ago and ends only very, very recently.
I was seven or eight and the small grade school I attended was just a few blocks from my home. It was quaint and rather friendly, in an old fashioned sort of way. We played marbles at recess, jumped rope and almost everyone went home for lunch. Two hours worth of lunch, which is business as usual for little French kids.
One Monday morning, our teacher, who must have needed an easy start to her work week, asked us to write a story about the way our family had spent the weekend.
Easy enough.
A bunch of studious little heads bobbed down and got to work.
So did mine.
I already loved to write and was happy, recounting how my mom and I had stayed home all weekend while my dad had flown down to St Tropez and spent the weekend with Brigitte Bardot at her home, La Madrague.
You see, my dad worked with Bardot, she sometimes came to our home and I was too young to understand how enormous that must have sounded (to put things in perspective, this is a bit equivalent to your children telling their third grade teacher that Oprah is coming to pick them up after school). But this was 1972 and while I understood that Brigitte Bardot was an actress, I was not seeped into the media world in the same way that kids now are. On top of this, I was used to famous people hanging around (my dad also worked closely with Salvador Dali) but I had not gotten the notion of how unusual that was. My life was my life and I had not yet learned how different it was nor had I yet experienced my first bout of how different can often mean alienating and how short a leap that can be to shameful.
So, the students having finished and turned in their little essays, the day continued, filled with arithmetic lessons and skinned knees.
The next day, the teacher seemed more serious than usual as she waited for all of us to sit down before she began distributing our graded papers. She took her time, diligently giving attention to each student and commenting on their work. Eric had gone fishing with his dad and she asked him a few questions about that. Patricia had helped her mom bake a tarte and that seemed to please our teacher. She had a word for everyone and that meant a lot to all of us. Finally, most of the papers having been returned to their authors, she stood there, looking solemn. That is when I simultaneously realized that she had not mentioned my story AND that she was still holding it. In fact, mine was the only one she was still holding.
Then she began. Slowly. She started by saying that she was proud of all of us for writing such good papers and how happy she was that we had interesting lives to talk about. Her eyes rested briefly on everyone as she spoke and yet it was not until a marked pause that they stopped on me. However, she continued I am very disappointed as I realize that there is a little liar among us, in our class. There was no doubt in anyones mind that she was looking at me, into me.
I did not know what she was about to say and for some reason (remember, this is when I still lived on the other side of the Innocence River), I remember feeling some excitement about discovering what was going to come next. No part of me was worried, I only felt curiosity. Then came the words: Laura Lavigne, in an attempt to bring attention to herself, has invented the following tale Now that I think about it, I can trace back my loss of true purity to that exact instant.
The teacher then proceeded to read my paper to the class. Her mocking tone did very little to alleviate the growing chuckles and general hilarity. Only my best friend Carole, who spent a lot of time in our home, was quiet. Like me, she was only seven and seven is pretty little When calm returned to the classroom, I was a different kid. I was frozen. I now recognize this feeling as it has appeared a few times since then - and still does, very occasionally - when life has seemed dangerous. I do not remember a thing about the rest of the day, no sound, no lesson, nothing. I only remember walking home. I was frozen. In a way, I felt as though I was out of my body.
And here is the important thing: I was not mad. I was not outraged. I was frozen. And then, step by step, another sensation crept in. It was unfamiliar and it took me years to recognize it. It was a blend of guilt and shame. Deep, deep shame. Shame that had nothing to do with reality. Shame that came because someone whom I trusted and respected had painted me in a shameful way.
By the time I got home, Shame and its sister Guilt had made a nest in me. They settled and they made themselves really comfortable. As I began to thaw, a new me came out. I looked the same and yet I was never the same. I had crossed to the other side of the River and there was no way back.
All this because I had given sanction to a person who did not deserve it.
Now, the grownup in me can almost begin to understand the teachers actions. Almost. I know all about projection; I know all about lack of self-esteem and all these interferences that make us unable to face the world in a clean way. I have made it my lifes work to understand how we all work and why we do the things we do. And yet, here I am, still triggered as I write these words and feeling a weight on my chest. I am no longer frozen and shame is mostly gone. Some depth of hurt, it seems, remains and I know that that morning, so long ago, has shaped me in a profound way. In a way that while I am mostly healed, still leaves me pretty tender.
I have made a vow - much too recently to never, ever, let someone elses perception of who I am affect my own feelings about myself. Shame and Guilt are a powerful, toxic duo and should I ever have to spend anytime in their company, it will be because somewhere along the way, I have acted in a way that did not please ME.
So, all this to say: PLEASE be kind and gentle to yourselves and check in. Check in before you let someone paint all over you with their dirty brush. Check in with yourself and stand up tall when you know that you are clean. Walk away if you must and try to do it before you freeze, as fully thawing is never a guarantee. One more thing: do not mistake your lack of anger or outrage for a sign that all is well. Anger and outrage take clarity and sometimes, we are just not ready for that. Yet.
Oh and here is the end to the story: that evening, my mom sensed that something was not right with me and questioned me until I told her what had happened. She immediately sat down to furiously write what seemed like a very passionate note and handed me a sealed envelope to give to my teacher the next day.
That Wednesday morning, I stood next to the schoolteacher, in our classroom, as she read my moms note. The thing I remember the most is that she did not read it out loud, that time and I felt nothing at all when she told me to go sit down at my desk. The matter was closed and not another word was ever spoken about it.
Laura Lavigne is a life coach, writer, artist and a mom.She lives on an island, loves to dance on her trampoline and eats pizza with a fork and knife. She is the author of "Pink Hair & Chocolate Cookies - real life lessons from a real life coach"
Excellent article! Yes, shame and guilt are toxic. It is too bad that some do not understand that we all live different styles and lives. I am glad that you are overcoming these emotions. Know that you told the truth and you don't have to go to sleep with that shame or guilt.
A wonderful and well written article. You were able to engage a reader's feelings into the episode. I felt anger at the teacher for her unwarrented assumption and I felt sorry for you haveing been put in the situation. I'm thankful that you have overcome those feelings of guilt, etc.
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