Assignment 6: Kindergarten Footprints: A Stigma Story

Kindergarten Footprints

Shoes and socks off.

Step in the blue paint.

Step on the paper with one foot.

A kindergarten footprint,

A kindergarten memory.

“Where’s your other toe, Anna?

Only four toes are in your footprint.

See the others? Did you do it right?”

Teacher frowning, kids laughing

As I learn one way I am different.

A kindergarten footprint,

A kindergarten memory.      

I wrote this poem when I was in high school, to describe the first time I understood that I had a stigma.  According to Newman (2010), a stigma is “the permanent spoiling” of someone’s identity, “a deeply discrediting characteristic, widely viewed as an insurmountable obstacle preventing competent or morally trustworthy behavior” (p. 180).  According to Newman, stigmas come in three varieties: defects of body, defects of character, and membership in a devalued social group (p. 180).  I guess I have the first type.  I have a congenital birth defect of the fourth metatarsal bone of each foot.  What that does is make my fourth toe on each foot way too short so that it sticks up on top of my foot, and only four of my toes touch the ground.  My parents referred to my fourth toes as my “special toes,” and since they didn’t seem to get in the way of running and playing like all the other kids, it didn’t occur to me that there was anything especially wrong until the kindergarten footprint project.  You wouldn’t think funny feet would be such a big deal, but kids can be pretty mean.  The teasing began.  What also began were my efforts to cope with my stigma.

At first, I mainly tried just to conceal the defect, using the coping strategy of hiding the stigma.  In short, I kept my shoes and socks on as much as possible.  I avoided sandals except those that completely covered all but my first three toes.  I also avoided going to pools and beaches with friends and classmates.  I learned to deal with the curious stares of strangers I would never see again, so family vacations provided the best opportunities for me to enjoy the beaches and water parks I love. 

I also used selective disclosure, baring my feet only in the presence of trusted friends.  I always started with a disclaimer, explaining in advance that my feet looked a bit different from the norm.  Sometimes my friends said my toes were “cute,” but I knew they were glad theirs were normal.  On occasion, I also gave an account if someone seemed curious about what happened to my feet.  I would just explain that it was a congenital birth defect.

Another of my coping strategies was to use humor:  I joked that I was “part dog” and that my feet proved it.  Since I love dogs, I think I actually came to believe this on some level myself.  Dogs love me, and never are bothered by my special toes!

The next strategy to deal with my stigma was surgery, which if successful, would permanently conceal the condition.  This was not possible until I stopped growing, and since both feet were involved, I had to do just one foot at a time because the eight week recovery was non-weight-bearing (medical-speak for crutches).  My doctor recommended this because the short toe rubbed the top of my shoes and was uncomfortable in any type of shoe except athletic shoes.  Also, the doctors predicted future foot problems for me from having four toes on each foot doing the work of five.  I had surgery on the first foot when I was in the fifth grade.  It worked beautifully, although eight weeks on crutches seemed like an eternity to a fifth-grader.  I would wait until the summer after my sixth grade year to have surgery on the other foot.  It couldn’t come fast enough.

Sixth grade was the first year of middle school, and having a funny looking foot was not cool.  In sixth grade social studies class, we did a production of Homer’s Odyssey that the teacher wanted to videotape.  The teacher required everyone to be barefooted and in togas for this wonderful learning experience.  I begged this teacher in private not to make me take off my shoes and socks in front of the entire class, explaining my reasons, but this heartless woman would not budge.  It was take off the shoes and socks or take an F.  For the sake of my grade, I took off my shoes and socks and was horribly embarrassed in front of the entire class.  The experience made me stress out and forget all of my lines too.  Classmates stared at my feet and told me how funny my “unfixed” foot looked.  It was an awful day.

When the time came to have the second surgery, I was eager to be done with this stigma.  Unfortunately, that is not how it worked out.  The surgery on my right foot was not successful.  My foot got infected during the procedure, and the spongy bone shrunk back to its original size and shape.  After eight weeks on crutches, I learned that my foot looked and functioned as if the surgery never happened.  I and my family were bummed, to say the least!  The orthopedic surgeon offered to repeat the surgery, but I said that 16 weeks on crutches in a year was enough.  I was destined to have a “special toe” and I would just live with it.

Of course the teasing didn't stop, but I tried one more coping measure.  I mastered an area that one might think would be closed to me.  I intensified my tennis training and made the high school team while I was in the eighth grade.  I played national tournaments and college tennis too.  One would think that a less-than-perfect foot would make tennis on a high level fairly impossible, but I was determined to succeed at the sport I loved.  Of course, I am fussy about what tennis shoes I wear, and sometimes my “unfixed” foot aches after an especially long match.  But playing tennis does give me a good excuse to wear tennis shoes most of the time.

It used to take a toll on my mental state to live with the stigma of my foot, but now I just accept it as part of my life.  Now that I'm older, I don’t care who sees my foot, and I'm proud to have the feet I do.   I now feel comfortable swimming anywhere, no matter who can see my foot because the only opinion that matters is mine.  Shoe shopping, however, remains a challenge, but at least I am not tempted by stilettos!

Although it troubled me greatly growing up, from reading this chapter I can see that my little “special toe” stigma was not so bad compared to what others have endured.  In life you will encounter different people with different challenges, and that's what makes us unique.  My toe and I have been through a lot, and it is part of who I am.  I could have the surgery and try again, but I have decided it's my toe and I’m sticking with it.  That, ladies and gentlemen, is my “special toe” story.