My first experience of feeling shame was at the age of twelve. My friend Nina and I were cycling home, when a raucous group of boys rode in front of us, halting our trip. Nina was an emotionally and physically advanced girl, fascinated by the opposite sex. I was young for my age, enjoying the company of boys for fun activities such as tree climbing or hiking.
The boys talked to each other in Afrikaans (a language used among a portion of the white population in South Africa). They eyed Nina with obvious appreciation—her voluptuous shape and tall Nordic blondeness were captivating. I was far shorter, with freckles and sturdy socked-legs.
As the boys chatted, one turned to me with a mocking expression, translating into English as ‘Face like a pie.’
I stood frozen, grasping my bicycle handles. I felt a crimson blush flooding my cheeks.
‘We’re not interested in you…why don’t you go off home?’ jeered another to me.
They continued to laugh and flirt with Nina, who returned the banter. Finally, they rode off. Nina dismissed them as ‘stupid boys’. However, she had clearly basked in their attention.
We rode back home in silence. I entered my gate, relieved to return to the security of my accepting sanctuary.
I stared at myself in the mirror. The face I was so used to, the face I had always taken for granted and been totally comfortable with, had now become ugly, round and balloon-like. It shamed me.
Thereafter, for several years I would blush easily in any social situation when I felt my looks did not measure up. I became awkwardly self-conscious. Each day I tried hard to deprive myself of food. This would only last until dinnertime. I sucked in my cheeks when with others. My face remained round.
As I moved into adolescence, my body shape changed. I found acceptance among many friends—boys and girls. The blushing diminished markedly. However, that concern about my face hovered deep within for years.
Moving forward many decades, the plumpness of my cheeks and the youthful roundness is retreating. If only my pie face would return!
Children can be cruel. If I could talk to my twelve-year-old self, what would I say?
Fight the boys back with insults? Laugh at them and tell them I loved my face? Push them off their bikes? The wisest way would have been to heed my mother: ‘Silly boys showing off…you are beautiful inside and out’.
We never listen to our parents at that age.
I was who I was—shy, vulnerable, and human.
Burnside Writers Group 