In the rural, backwoods middle school that I attended in the mid-1970s, we looked forward to visits from the Bible Lady. Armed with a flannelgraph board and slide show, she carried her petite frame and Dorothy Hamill haircut with an air of purpose as she swished her A-line dress in various shades of brown into the middle-school gym.
We all loved when the Bible Lady came. Not because any of us were dying to hear her riveting account of David and Goliath one more time, but because it meant that we were spared the drudgery of history, math, science—whatever your poison—for the hour she held us captive (or prisoner, depending how you saw it). We squeezed in, side by side and crisscross-applesauce on the floor, feeling some strange sense of community. Boys picked their noses while girls smoothed their hair and rolled up the cuffs of their new Gloria Vanderbilt jeans. It was an event.
But in the cafeteria, there was a totally different kind of event going on. My friend Tracy, one of the kindest classmates a girl could hope for in the midst of the mean-girl middle-school years, always sat in the cafeteria.
She and her family were devout Jehovah’s Witnesses. Though I’m not sure what harm the Bible Lady could have posed to Tracy, her parents decided she should sit it out. And so Tracy, along with other kids who were opposed to Bible stories in public school, those who were the children of Buddhists, Muslims, agnostics, or atheists, as well as kids who simply had no stomach for a packed gym of middle schoolers who hadn’t yet nailed the daily application of deodorant, sat in metal chairs painted in primary colors, doing homework and being “the other.”
When the Bible Lady released us, the gym doors opened right into the cafeteria. This meant that every person had to walk past these “others” as we left our Christian assembly and passed judgment on the cafeteria outcasts.
I remember asking Tracy if it bothered her to be left out of the school assembly. She said no, but I’m not sure I bought it. No one wants to be an “other.” There are so many ways we can feel relegated to the O category.
I remember wearing the thrift-store clothes my mother brought home, feeling embarrassed that I never fit in with the popular girls, who were always turned out in the latest fashions. I saw their looks of pity at my outdated jeans. I imagined how happy they all must be with their thin legs and perfectly fitted jeans, while I asked God, “Why did you give me these thighs?” (That was before Meghan Trainor came along.)
A particularly surprising example of “othering” that I recently heard of concerned the daughter of a good friend of mine. She’s a high-school freshman who is, as the kids say, ten out of ten. Smart, talented athlete, great singer, gorgeous face, hair, skin, perfect figure, and one of the kindest and most thoughtful people you’ll ever meet. Yet she is often shunned and unwelcome in conversations, ride shares, and parties. Why? Her God-given beauty is what makes her an “other.” Her classmates exclude her from the playing field and make her feel less than, in order to soothe their own insecurities. Feelings of inadequacy can cause us to do terrible things.
When I started writing this, my mind went straight to middle school, even though there is a lot of road between me and those years. Why? Maybe those awkward years are the motherland of “othering.” We didn’t learn better back then, so we dragged all of that mess right into our grown-up lives.
When we compare ourselves so brutally to others, we never feel good enough. Are we so uncomfortable encountering people who don’t speak, look, live, or believe the way we do that we feel some sort of comfort in assuming our way of doing things must be the right way? Maybe we could all take a lesson from Ted Lasso and just accept people as they are. The great irony is that we are always the most interesting when we’re being ourselves. God bless the Bible Lady. Don’t you think she, too, felt like an “other”?
Years ago, I read that Fred Rogers used to carry a note in his pocket with a quote he heard from a social worker. It read, “There isn’t anyone you can’t love, once you know their story.” In a world like that, no one would be an “other.” That's something to shoot for in this world where it seems that everyone is.
Singer/songwriter Cindy Morgan is a two-time Grammy nominee, a thirteen-time Dove winner, and a recipient of the prestigious Songwriter of the Year trophy. An East Tennessee native, her evocative melodies and lyrics have mined the depths of life and love both in her own recording and through songwriting for noteworthy artists around the globe, including Vince Gill, India.Arie, Rascal Flatts, Amy Grant, Sandra McCracken, and Glen Campbell. Cindy is the author of two works of adult nonfiction—the memoir How Could I Ask for More: Stories of Blessings, Battles and Beauty (Worthy Inspired, 2015) and Barefoot on Barbed Wire: A Journey Out of Fear into Freedom (Harvest House Publishers, 2001)—and of the children’s picture book Dance Me, Daddy (ZonderKidz, 2009).
The Year of Jubilee is her debut novel. Cindy is a cocreator of the charitable Hymns for Hunger Tour, which has raised awareness and resources for hunger relief organizations across the globe. Cindy has two daughters and splits her time between a small town near Nashville and Holly Springs, North Carolina, with her husband, Jonathan.
For more information visit cindymorganmusic.com
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