Yearbook Signing

The school year is wrapping up, and my kids are bringing home stashes of artwork and used-up pencils, celebrating their accomplishments, and preparing to spend a few days having fun with friends before school’s out for the summer. One annual task that is right around the corner is yearbook signing. My kids are young, so yearbooks seem a little extraneous, but I have to admit it’s pretty sweet to watch this tradition evolve. In Kindergarten, kids are just able to sign their names and by fifth grade, they are adding fun embellishments like hearts and stars to their signatures. Next up, middle school, where everyone writes, “Have a great summer!” and “Stay cool! C-ya next year!”

This got me thinking about my own yearbooks, and my high school self. I pulled my yearbooks out today because I remember the comments often surprising me. Of course most people say nice things, like “You’re a good friend,” and “It was fun having chemistry with you,” and always, “Have a great summer!” But when they became more specific, the personal comments in my high school yearbooks tend to have a similar theme, mostly about my perpetual optimism and joy.

“You are always smiling!”

“Thanks for being so happy and cheerful all the time.”

“I will miss seeing your smile and positive personality!”

In middle and high school, I was something of an incurable optimist. Search for the silver lining, point out the bright spot, think happy thoughts—these were my specialties. People who know me in my day-to-day life now would find this to be laughable. A bit of a skeptic, tired and complaining, and usually obviously stressed to the max as I run from kids to work to other obligations—this is the land I now reside in. Frankly, I miss the optimist within myself, and I’ve been wondering where she’s been.

It’s not as though the circumstances of my high school years were ideal, and I was simply enjoying the blissful ignorance of youth. You could argue that adult life is harder, and has more responsibilities and worries. But the truth is that when I was younger, not only was my home life much more difficult than my daily life now, the circumstances of my personal and family existence were pretty much public knowledge.

I remember the night my dad came charging into the high school auditorium. I was standing behind a giant wood and canvas construction made to look like a house that had been the backdrop for a play ending that night. I had called my dad to tell him that I would be home late, because we needed to strike the set that evening. I had asked for permission to attend the cast party afterward, and he had said no. I hung up the phone, telling him I would get a ride home after I finished helping to tear down and clean up. It would be late, but getting a ride home was normal for me. It was no surprise that my dad hadn’t attended a single showing of my first ever performance.

So there I was, standing on the stage of my high school production, holding onto a heavy backdrop while another person was breaking it down. I began to hear whispers from the other cast members. I heard yelling and a scuffle in the room just off the stage, and someone saying, “I think it’s her dad.” I looked up to see a friend standing at the end of the backdrop, and the look on his face was one of compassion.

“What is going on?” I asked.

“Your dad is here,” he answered simply, and held out his arms to me.

I felt a wave of red-hot shame and embarrassment wash over my body. I ran into that hug, my head hanging down in disbelief, my ears ringing, and tears welling in my eyes. I could hear the drama teacher shouting, telling my dad he needed to leave.

“I think he punched Mr. B.” my friend whispered into the top of my head. “You’d better go,” he said.

I left quickly and quietly with my dad that night, without saying a word to anyone, and then had to return to that same school the following Monday. I was only a freshman. I remember the continued embarrassment of hearing the drama teacher retell the story in the hallway several times over the next few weeks. Visiting alumni, other teachers, administration, all got to hear about how Mr. B. feared for his safety when a student’s dad came charging in following an exhausting run of performances. When your dad storms into the high school in your freshman year and punches the drama teacher in the face, it’s pretty obvious to everyone you know that you’re not living with the most stand-up guy.

No one mentioned that incident in my yearbook. No one talked about how I was shy, or quiet, or closed off. Instead, friends mentioned specifically that they appreciated that I continued to smile even though it seemed like my life was hard. I know that I am blessed to have had many reasons for joy during that season. I always felt loved and supported by extended family, friends and teachers throughout that very confusing and abusive time. I participated in a variety of activities, because being at school was certainly better than being at home. My faith grew during that season, and I found strength in believing in a God who loved me.

When I consider it now, I also believe the fact that others were completely aware of my reality influenced my optimistic perspective. My friends knew the facts of my upbringing and home life, yet they were still my friends. Having support in the face of such tremendous difficulty gave me the space and freedom to be myself without fear of rejection. My friends understood that circumstances were hard, but they didn’t judge me based on those circumstances. They regarded me separately from my dad’s actions, and they gave me tremendous grace. I can’t even explain to you the incredibly positive influence that my peers had in that short season of my life. When things were difficult, they sent letters and cards and notes of encouragement. When things went well, they had barbecues in my honor. They were high schoolers. Just kids themselves, really. But they supported me in ways that have anchored me ever since.

Maybe it was because I was surrounded by so many caring people that I found the strength and determination to regard myself as separate from my circumstances. I became defiantly opposed to being like my dad; I wholeheartedly refused to believe that I was as bad and shameful as he often labeled me. I made it my mission to become the opposite of what my life appeared to be. Daily life was hard, but I was hopeful. Shame abounded, but I found strength. The story did not look like it was going to end well, but I became the surest optimist.

In more recent years, I lost that sense that things would turn out well. I started to think in terms of my failures, rather than my successes. Maybe it was becoming a mom, and feeling terrified that I was doing it all wrong. Perhaps it was seeing others around me fall into old patterns and cycles repeating themselves, as they often do. The messages in my head told me that I couldn’t be better than where I came from, that I was incurably messed up, and that no matter how hard I tried, things would not end the way I wanted them to. I felt as though I no longer had control over the person others would see in me and that I couldn’t influence or change the inevitably negative comments they would leave about me in my yearbook.

Since I have been openly sharing personal stories of my past and experiences on my blog, I have felt a lightening taking place in my life. Learning to walk without shame over my past, or even my present and the ways my past has influenced me, is unbelievably freeing. Deciding that I am unwilling to hide what I am dealing with, or make excuses, forces me to address the real roots of my exasperation, my stress, my cynical heart. It is only by facing those issues head on that I can break free from them. Acknowledging the truth, being unable to hide, is terrifying for sure. But for the most part, if I am being honest, finding tremendous support from so many who either identify with or find new ways to empathize through my stories has been an incredibly uplifting experience for me personally. It is helping me find my way back to that high school student who was known, and not ashamed. I am once again feeling pretty optimistic these days about how my story ends. After all, I play a major role in determining that outcome.

I was thinking that it might be nice to do some yearbook signing again. Consider this a note from me to you, telling you to stay cool. Thanks for reading my story. You matter to me, and you have helped me feel known and unashamed, and are aiding me in shifting my view back toward optimism. I really do hope you have an amazing summer and you keep in touch. But I want to take it even further. I want to be the supportive friend who isn't hiding her truth, and makes room for others to share honestly when they are struggling. I want to acknowledge your struggles, and be able to point out that you are not your circumstances.  I want to write for you a note telling you all the good I see in you that you might not see in yourself. I want you to believe that you can change your future, today, and be the kind of person that you want to be, no matter what you're battling or where you come from. That's what I'm writing in your yearbook today, friend. LYLAS.