Edit Desk: Less stuff, more substance

At the age of 10, the idea of shame is far too complex for a young mind to understand. As I was growing up, I did not know exactly what the word meant, yet I felt shameful everyday.

Each morning, I would wake as the first stream of sunlight poured through my window, with more than enough time to get ready for school. I was typically ready for class with an hour to spare. That was the way I liked it. To be early was to be on time, and to be late was unthinkable.

If I overslept, I would need a ride to school, and if I was driven to school shame washed over me instantly like an innate reaction or learned response I subconsciously carried inside. Missing the bus was worse than failing a spelling test or being the last one picked for a team in gym class.

I was ashamed of my family’s car: massive, outdated, dark green. It sounded more like a plane than something you could drive down Main Street. It was all we could afford, but at the time my immature self did not consider all that was being done to keep my single-parent household afloat.

All I knew was our car was ugly, old and loud. It made the other kids turn and stare when I was driven to school. Many made comments, some pointed and laughed, one spit on my shoes. With that, I asked to be dropped off several blocks away so no one could see the monstrous machine that got me there.

The congested avenue and questionable characters roaming the sidewalks were not enough to keep me from walking. My embarrassment stung more than the fear ever did. My white Keds rattled against the pavement as I picked up my pace, afraid of missing the bell or being approached by a stranger.

Little did I know, our car trailed behind me on each of these fateful mornings to ensure I was safe. I did not notice this act of kindness because I was too focused on getting away. Perhaps our car was not as noisy as I perceived it to be.

A series of dated, broken-down cars followed me throughout my childhood. Unanswered birthday party invitations and missed experiences plagued my adolescence, a direct result of self-consciousness I could not seem to conquer.

Years passed and my family dynamic changed. I was placed in the hands of my grandparents, and though life was not suddenly free of worry, I no longer felt such a heavy financial burden resting on my shoulders.

On my 16th birthday, I was gifted my grandmother’s car. It was not new, but it was silver, sleek and everything a young adult could have wanted. My car represented freedom, and not just in the sense that I could go where I wanted when I wanted to go. My car was freedom from the shame, the relentless need I felt to hide who I was and where I came from.

Yet the self-doubt remained. A lack of confidence still weighed me down. Then, I understood.

My possessions, or lack thereof, did not define who I was. A car, a new pair of shoes or expensive clothing was not going to bring satisfaction when looking in the mirror. Things could not serve as the foundation of my identity, but my opinions, ideas and values could.

In a Lehigh survey, 21.6 percent of Lehigh students feel they are judged for the things they can afford. When walking down Memorial Walkway, we may see these things, but we need to take a moment to truly see the people.

We are more than our bank accounts, the brands we wear and the cars we drive. Happiness cannot be bought or bargained for, but worked toward and earned. Most things in life are attached to a price tag — whether that price be real or metaphorical, monetary or emotional — but dignity and self-assurance do not need to be paid for.

It’s about time we start to fill our lives with less stuff and more substance. We fill our dorm rooms with things we don’t need, while we should fill our hearts and minds with empathy and gratitude.

At the age of 10, I let the things I owned define who I was. Now, I own who I am.

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Jessica Hicks, ’19, is an associate news editor for The Brown and White. She can be reached at [email protected].