You don’t know me.
You don’t know me. When I ran the diversity lesson today to the 7th graders, it changed me. The last activity that we did was to write down a secret that no one knew about you on a little yellow sheet of paper. This small, painful secret was to remain anonymous. It was to never be branded to someone that had put it up on the big red walls of the wrestling room. Once we were all done with writing down our secrets that have never been told on the sheet of paper, we pinned them up on the wall. It shocked me. It scared me. It amazed me. Some of those things that were written on those little slips of paper had altered my thoughts like needles into an arm. It shows me that there are things that we will never find out about a person, unless it slipped through their teeth. It shows me that there are people out there who go through extreme things like depression and being a victim of bullying… Like me… It kills me to say this but sadly there are millions of people with dirty little secrets. Secrets that shall never be spoken, secrets that shall forever remain in the thoughts of the carrier, never to be born out into the mean world. I find this amazing. You don’t know me. You don’t know who I am, what I like, and what I don’t like, until I tell you. You don’t know my secrets…
Assumption can be the death of people, and like the sting of a hot brander, we are all scanned by the mental computers running throughout every individual’s mind, and the second it is loaded into a word, or a whisper, or even maybe a rumor that you heard from a friend, we are scarred with it… If it weren’t for those notes on that tall red wall, I would have never had guessed that those kind of bad things actually happen. See, sometimes things like secrets, or faded scars upon a little girls thigh or shoulder go undetected, closed off, and hidden behind bigger thoughts in our vast minds, or hidden under a long sleeve, people can’t pick that up just by looking at you. Like per say someone was suicidal, society would not be able to perceive that unless that quiet person came out with their troubles, and asked for help just to spare one more night of walking the tightrope.
You don’t know me. You don’t know my secrets, my thoughts. So think before you speak, think before you make fun of someone’s clothing, hair, teeth, sexual orientation, or even the color of their skin because that one comment, that one phrase, word, can be the one that could push them off of the tight rope.