They didn't mean dogs or cats ... they meant people.
I was constantly befriending the girl who had no friends, the boy who got bullied. I preferred to go visit our 80 year old neighbor after school, because I knew he was lonely after his wife died.
This may, in many ways, seem to be a glorious and wonderful trait.
Somedays, in many ways, it is indeed.
However, my ability to see The Back Story has often meant that the very same people whose story I embrace, turn around and hurt me or leave me stranded.
What is this back story? I am a sucker for someone who cries poor or has less than me. I want to help them, to fix them, to make it all better.
First off, it should be noted... many, many, many of them do not want me to fix anything. It isn't, after all, my place. Who says I am in someway "better" than them... who says my back story is a shining example of wondie-ness.
Note. I don't.
I never have. We were squarely middle class when I was growing up. Often, we faltered on the lower middle class end of the spectrum. I never knew it then. My parents never, ever shared this with me. But, in retrospect, lunch boxes with a "mustard sandwich" or saltines and butter may have been a big hint.
My Mom watched for sales and clipped coupons. Having $100.00 saved up to go to the Ames in Lowville and get new school clothes was a big deal. Still, I always felt so lucky. So rich.
I loved our home. My mom, even though she ran her own business, always had an after school snack waiting and dinner planned. I had two parents who adored me and listened to my stories. I had a baby brother who I hung the moon on... he was (and still is) the Best Sibling Ever. I had dogs and a yard with a big swing set. I got to take piano lessons and dance lessons. They hauled me to cheerleading practice and one of them was at every game I ever cheered at.
When I saw a child who didn't get to participate; who sat alone at lunch; who wore the same clothes every day; who never got asked to sleepovers or birthday parties, I was like a magnet attracted to a sheet of metal. I was "on that project".
As an adult, this has continued. I always see someone who seems sad or angry and the writer in me begins to create their Back Story.
Were they an abused child? Are they facing unemployment? Illness? Is a family member dying? I will surround them with love, shower them with Free Stuff, take them to lunch.... I will make up for their Back Story.
Will I? No. I won't. I will attempt it. Inevitably, I will fall short or they will take advantage of me. Either way, it sure does sting.
In many ways, on most days, I am still that third grader who invites that shy kid home for dinner. I am too bright and happy. I try too hard to fix what is not my story to fix.... what someone may not wish for me to fix.
I still beckon you to look at those around you who seem nasty or sad and wonder- What Is Their Back Story. I know this- this faulty trait of mine makes me much less judgmental than most. Even my daughter, at a young age, would caution me to stop letting people walk all over me or take advantage of me. She is a better judge of character than her soft hearted Mama.
Nonetheless, if I ever meet you, you can bet I am wondering.... What Is Their Back Story.
Maybe you want to tell me, and maybe you don't.
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