My First Report Card

I remember my mom showing me my first report from preschool. I had found a drawing of our family done by me during my preschool years in my mom's dresser drawers. I loved to look through her stuff. Especially the jewelry that she had tucked away in little boxes with tissue. As I look back now, the assorted rings, necklaces and earrings were just costume jewelry, most too gaudy to wear, but they were my secret treasures. My mom either didn't mind or didn't know I was looking for these "treasures" weekly, because I was so careful in making sure everything went back exactly as it had been. Underneath the portrait I had drawn was a piece of paper with pluses and minuses and a comment section with barely two lines to cover a years worth of reflection written by the teacher.

Kristin needs to show some modesty when wearing dresses.
She is also very sensitive.

Nothing was stated about my easy going nature, wonderful imagination and willingness to please..anyone. It seemed the criticism that was so heavy at home followed me to school, even my first experiences in preschool. I brought the report card to my mom knowing there maybe consequences for my actions. My parents bedroom was Strictly forbidden to go into, let alone to riffle through personal affects. Down the stairs I went paper in hand.

Mom was making cookies and watching One Life to Live. I sensed she was in a good mood. Being sensitive does have some perks. I can easily read people through the smallest gestures, elevations in the tone of their voice and various other minute clues. I am one of those people that always say "Did you see that?" Or "Did you hear that?" and the common answer I get is "No." "What?" and they could be standing right next to me witnessing the same thing. I guess I am like an X- Man, my powers would be to read people's initial thoughts and feelings. I know some already have the ability to read minds, so....I guess my powers are obsolete. Shucks. Anyway...

My mom takes the paper, smiles,remembering quietly to herself.
"What's this part about modesty?" I asked
"Oh, when you wore dresses,you were always showing your butt when you bent over." She said in passing, waving her hand as if to shoo such an unimportant question away.
"What about the sensitive bit?" I pushed further.
"You are too sensitive. You need to lighten up," stated very matter of fact and turned her attention to her soap opera.
I was not only saddened by the comments made by a teacher that I didn't even remember, but my mother's tone of agreement broke my heart.
I thought, it must be true.

In high school I found the same report card while helping my mom clean out her dresser drawers for donation. The words " show some modesty" and "sensitive" screamed out from the page at me. I hated seeing it again. How did it make it back to her drawer? Why would she keep something that had such hurtful comments about me?I realized a couple years after reading the report card the first time, that my modesty problems were due to the fact that my mom did not like to buy us clothes. All the dresses I owned were far too small and barely covered my bottom to begin with. I had received similar comments about my modesty issues for the next two school years. My mother finally put pants on underneath my dresses, although they were no longer dresses, but had become tops. This is from parents that in those same years built a house in an affluent neighborhood.

And as for being "sensitive", well I still am. It is so difficult for me to let some things roll of my back. I hold onto the words and the hurt far longer than I probably should. I wish on most days that I missed the nuances and innuendos that occur in general conversation. What's funny is that some days I am really sensitive and others I am completely clueless. I just don't know where I will fall on a given day. I'm not showing my butt off anymore. My modesty is in check, as my clothing now fits. But, when it comes to being sensitive, boy, that's a hard one to mend.