Beautiful People

My friend Natalie is a beautiful person. Energetic and lively, always brimming with laughter, intelligent and opinionated  and brave; Haitian and Dominican and dark as a licorice whip, with startling white teeth and eyes that shine like coffee beans -- a petite, dimpled package of dynamite who always manages to look well-coiffed in anything she wears, even if her jeans have holes and her shirt has a stain. When she's in a classroom her English is flawless; when she's out and about she falls back on an easy French-English patois that is a delight to a poet's ears. She comes across as confident, strong, almost sassy: but she thinks she's ugly and ungraceful and inadequate.

My friend Elizabeth -- Bizzy, my sissy, the heart of my heart -- is a beautiful person .A quick wit and infallible sense of humor, a  frank, straightforward way of looking at things, a no-bullshit attitude, an unabashed love of anime and Pokemon and shiny things balanced by a vast knowledge of historical periods, myths, lore, and legends of all ilk; pale skin and finely chiseled features, slender, pretty hands, lively eyes and an hourglass figure. She walks like she owns the sidewalk, laughs like she doesn't give a damn about anyone else's negative opinion, and puts on a face like she can't be hurt by nails or bullets or rabid beasts: but she's nervous, anxious, half-convinced that she's unlovable and hideous, forever guarded against attack.

My friend Jared is a beautiful person. Considerate and chivalrous, an accomplished wordsmith, full to the brim with genuineness and sincerity; a man who always has a happy whistle on his lips, who loves his manly, manly beard and his graphic-novel "baby" and his Green Lantern jacket and his endless games of Settlers of Catan, one who smiles with his whole face and has dimples that are irresistible:  but he thinks he's so-so, always measures himself against what other people think of him and finds himself wanting, is afraid he is not good enough for his family or his friends or his God.

I could go on all night about beautiful people who do not know their own worth. They -- we -- are everywhere. Everyone. We cannot see ourselves as the ones who love us most see us; we must be our own worst critics and our own fun house mirrors, reflecting back distorted, ugly versions of ourselves. I do it all the time, too: I think I'm fat, ugly, and completely lacking in basic social skills, I hate the postures and affectations that Cerebral Palsy has given me and cringe when I see them, and I'm secretly afraid no one will ever truly love me and that people are only friends with me out of pity.

But Natalie -- that dark, gorgeous dynamo who hates her skin because it isn't light and fears that she doesn't have enough of the "right" kind of humanity to be a good social worker -- admires me. Me, with my tiny apartment and my food stamps and my hair that never does the right thing and my wrinkled t-shirts. "You don't let your disability get you down," she said today. "You're not afraid to speak up and say things that need to be said, either. You're so confident. I wish I could be like that."

I was rendered speechless. My head was going: "But you are like that! But I'm not like that! But ... now I'm confused." Aside from admitting that I do have a big mouth for the greater good -- whether or not it's a good idea at the time I open said mouth -- I could not wrap my head around what Nat was saying. Especially in terms of disability, especially lately. She's not the first person who has said that to me, "You don't let your disability get you down." Dad has said it. Biz has said it. So many people have said it, but it isn't true. I do let my disability get me down. It's just that no one sees it when it happens, because I'm afraid of being seen as less admirable if I admit that sometimes I feel like a person trapped in a glass box, able to see all the beautiful things outside but not allowed to touch them; if I say that sometimes I cry because all I want is to go on a walk that doesn't hurt, just one walk, and it isn't fair that I can't. Is hiding it what makes it admirable? Somehow I don't think so, which means I must be missing the point. Which is the whole point of this entry: everybody misses the point. (So, um, why am I writing this, again?)

My dad always tells me that it isn't the absence of fear that makes you brave, but what you do in spite of your fear. Maybe it's something like that. Maybe Natalie is confident because in spite of her insecurities, she puts herself out there as Natalie and keeps on keepin' on. Maybe it's the same with Bizzy, with Jared, with me: Bizzy  owns the sidewalk because she's sassy in the face of her anxiety; Jared is genuinely himself because he persists in being himself even when faced with a fear that himself is not good enough, and I never let my disability get me down because when it does, I do my crying, put it behind me, and go on till the next time. (Apparently people expect me to shut down, cease all attempts at being a productive member of society, and sit on my couch eating Hot Fries all day. Sometimes I do sit on my couch eating Hot Fries all day, but I guess that isn't the point either.)

Wouldn't it be great if we each had a mirror that let us see ourselves as our loved ones see us? If all we had to do was say, "Mirror, mirror on the wall: show me why I have personal worth," and the mirror would show us, and we'd believe it? Because that's another part of the problem: when our loved ones show us ourselves, we don't believe them. We persist in discounting, demeaning, dissembling, almost as if we want to be fat and ugly and incompetent and afraid and not good enough. We want our worth -- unless we have to reach out and take it. Then something stops us. Fear of our worth? What a cycle! I'm getting tired just thinking about it!

I'm going to end this entry with a little exercise, and maybe you guys can do it too. Pick one thing you do well. Anything. It doesn't matter if you're the grand poo-bah of all artists or if you just color really pretty inside the lines. Maybe you cook. Maybe you parent. Maybe you sing. It doesn't matter what it is, you just have to do it. Then admit that you do that thing well, and leave it at that: don't give it stipulations, don't say "but," don't measure your talent or enjoyment against someone else's. It doesn't even matter who else thinks you do that thing well: as long as you think so, you're in. Let yourself think so. Tell yourself, "I do (fill in the blank) well." and let yourself own it. (Oh my god, I sound like a therapist; someone wash my brain out with soap.)

So, to end: I write well.

P.S. You are a beautiful person.

(Motivational speaker? Shrink? Social Worker?! Seriously, though. Just trying to give us all a boost, myself included.)