The Forgotten Cookies

I have always had this way of disappearing in a crowd, of going unnoticed, being lost in the social background of life. If my face really that forgettable, not pretty enough to warrant a second glance, not ugly enough to invite a glare or two or even a disgusted grimace? Perhaps my voice is not strong enough to compete with the crowd. Words come out of my mouth but are not heard as if they were never spoken at all. My presence is either forgotten or taken for granted so that I might as well have not even been there. It is a blessing and a curse, really. Sometimes I would rather just be there to observe, to be separate from the reality in front of me. It is easier that way, easier to see people and places for what they really are, easier to stay out of the mess of life. But at the same time it is that separation that leaves me feeling as if I am an outsider, as if I don't belong, sitting on the sidelines just hoping that someone will incite me in, to be a part of that mess of life. But then, I have to remember that sometimes you have to invite yourself.

I suppose it all began early in life for me, this flirting with the edges of social belonging. My very first birthday at school began with anxious excitement. I had the very last birthday in my class before school ended at the end of May. Every other's had been celebrated with cupcakes and candy and a class rendition of the birthday song. My mother had allowed for a rare indulgence in allowing me to take cookies from my favorite local bakery that day. I loved going into the bakery and choosing a temptation from the many eye popping choices behind the glass. They had an old fashioned cash register there, the kind in which dollar and cent amounts popped out of the top on little tabs as the total was calculated and payed. It rang like a bell when our sale was complete. I always ended up choosing chocolate donuts and spice cookies with reddish purple jelly in the center. There were my favorite. we took home loaves of cobblestone bread to my father and ate it with out evening meal and bought caked for special occasions chosen from a huge book of laminated pages with pictures of every cake imaginable splayed across each page.

For my birthday we had gotten an assortment ranging from chocolate chip to oatmeal raisin, sugar and peanut butter, two for each member of my class to choose. I had brought them in in a big, plain white box and set them on the table at the head of out kindergarten classroom and gone about the rest of my kindergarten day. I suppose it never occurred to me to tell the teacher what was int he box or why it was there. I waited all day for her to announce the grand event, to proclaim me king for the day, to sing for me. She never did, though. Recess came, nothing. Afternoon play time, still nothing. I was so confused. My eyes stayed on the white box on the table all afternoon. I wanted her to pick them up, open them, then she would understand! Why hadn't she remembered my big day? Why was she completely ignoring my cookies? As painfully shy a child as I was, I dared not raise my voice in inquisition. Instead, my heart sang deeper and deeper in disappointment. It wasn't until out last bathroom break of the day, each of us waiting in a single file line for everyone to finish, did I break down and begin to sob near the end of the line pathetically.

"They forgot my birthday," I blubbered through the huge wet tears of my 5 year old eyes. I couldn't stop. the teacher's aide came running, consoling, correcting. Quickly we were wisked back to class, cookies were handed out, the singing began just like that and all was alright. As rushed as it was trying to beat the dismissal bell, for that one moment it was ok, I felt celebrated. It was my birthday, and I belonged in the center of it, not lost on the sidelines forgotten. Of course, the next day I was back to being the quiet one, the one lost in the crown, the one easily forgotten; and that is how most of my childhood progressed.

I guess what I should have learned from all this is that sometimes you have to force yourself to be noticed, to be heard, to break out of the background and be acknowledged; but I tend to fall back into this trap every once in a while of feeling left behind and not doing anything about it. It's easier sometimes just to feel sorry for oneself and accept that you don't belong than to make an effort to join the group or speak up for oneself. Of course, there is always that fine line between forcing oneself in and being wanted once you are included. I suppose the real finesse is in knowing when to speak up and when to stay on the sidelines. Then it's just a matter of having the self-confidence enough to know that you made the choice to speak up or not and there is no reason to feel sorry for yourself.