I knew exactly what she meant.

It meant my sister was special – and I was not. She was pretty, and I was not. The reality was that she was indeed pretty, and the equivalent reality was that I was not.

My sister was plump, at a time when it was fashionable for children to be plump – considered to be a sign of good health; she had the equally valuable traits of having rosy cheeks and curly hair. Conversely, I was thin – yes, scrawny – and pale. Worse still, I had freckles, and, of course, straight hair.

On her rare visits, my paternal grandmother would pinch my sister’s cheeks with pleasure, and exclaim, “How pretty she looks in that blue dress!”

Then she would look at me, and check with my mother if I was a sickly child. My nickname was “the runt”.

So, what was this situation about? That blue dress. Yes, it was trivial, but never forgotten.

We were not a wealthy family. We always had the essentials, but there was never anything to spare, no luxuries. Consequently, my mother sewed all our clothes. We always received a new home-made “good” dress, once a year, for wearing to Sunday School and church, and for visits by grandparents; this special dress was an addition to our two sets of play clothes and school uniforms.

My sister’s new dress was always blue – but mine was yellow, pink, or green, or whatever other fabric colour was available. I never had a blue dress. I asked my mother if I could, one day, have a blue dress, but the answer was, “No, dear. Blue looks good on Lindy; it matches her blue eyes!”

But what looks good on me? Awkward silence. Then a rush of meant-to-be-pacifying words. She added, “With your eyes, you can wear any colour.”

They were just additional words, add-ons, in an awkward attempt to make me feel “equally loved” – but they made no difference at all. I was upset.

Any colour. Anything else but blue. I knew that the words meant that nothing looked particularly special on me. My eyes were “nothing” coloured. Not brown. Not blue. Hazel. What was hazel? An in-between colour. If I wore green, my eyes looked more greenish, and wearing brown brought out those brown lights. In my own hazel eyes, I was a lesser being. I never asked again.

Yet, of all the children, I was always the healthiest – the others suffered from frequent childhood illnesses. I, a skinny and pale but healthy runt, wore clothes of all different colours, therefore, and no one ever exclaimed about me, or how good I looked in whatever colour I happened to be wearing. My cheeks were never pinched with pleasure.

Another thing my mother said, to reassure me, I assume, was that “It’s the inside that counts.” That is so, but in a child’s mind it meant, “And it is just as well, for you haven’t got good looks.”

Yet good looks bring self-confidence, the willingness to show initiative and leadership skills with that certain knowledge that you are “okay”, that you’ll be well accepted. I was withdrawn, a quiet, studious child who loved to read. My other nickname was “the bookworm”.

So yes, I tried to be one who was nice on the inside. That would be my compensation.

Perhaps surprisingly, I always wanted to be a teacher. I was considered to be “the brainy one” of the family. Over time, I became aware that it is indeed the inside which is important. Not just for those of us who are ugly ducklings, but for everybody.

As a teacher, I was still shy and reserved – until I entered my classroom. Then I became transformed into a confident and outgoing teacher. I knew my subject matter well, and I understood my students. I set firm boundaries, and our chief “rule” was to respect one another. We did. No put-downs. We would always build each other up and help each other. Everyone was to feel special. My classroom was my happy place. Our happy place.

They were my family. I loved teaching. I cared deeply about my students, and their emotional well-being.

Other teachers asked for the top-streamed and academic classes. I asked for the slower learners, the misfits, those who felt awkward in the classroom, those who had never felt special. I understood them. I wanted to impart not only a love of learning, but also genuine self-acceptance, and confidence, the assurance that their effort would make a difference. To me, each one was special, regardless of looks or abilities.

I never wanted any student to feel unaccepted, demeaned, or “not good enough” based on external factors over which they had no control. I devised strategies to build up their confidence, not only with the subject matter, but within themselves. In so doing, I was making a difference – and I learned to value myself as well. That was our gift to each other. We all felt special.

Needless to say, I continued to wear a variety of colours throughout my adult life – including blue, particularly that rich cobalt blue, the deep and beautiful colour of irises. Yes, I wore red and pink, brown and burgundy, sometimes green, or pale yellow. In fact, I wore any colour I liked.

Once I bought a yellow overshirt, which I wore over black. It always made me feel happy and somehow joyous. It was the colour of sunshine. The colour of buttercups. It made me feel very special. My students loved it too, and they would often remark on it. The other teachers, in an effort to look slim, confident, and professional, always wore black, with perhaps just a coloured scarf for interest. I was happy to be different, and wear different colours every day.

Perhaps if I had been a chubby and pretty child with rosy cheeks who always received a blue dress, I would not have become the person I am today. It has taken me a good proportion of my adulthood to accept myself, and to believe that I am “okay”. Looks don’t matter, or at least, they don’t NEED to matter. It IS what’s inside that is important.

Initially, it was only a question about the colour of a dress, but it became so much more. Eyes, rosy cheeks, good looks, being pretty. Self-acceptance. Confidence.  

To this day, I am still the healthiest in the whole family. Perhaps being the runt was indeed a blessing in disguise.

To this day, furthermore, I continue to wear whatever I like, looking into my mismatched and uncoordinated wardrobe, for whatever I choose … to suit just ME! I have every colour in there! Another blessing in disguise.

Who cares about hazel eyes? With MY eyes, I can and do wear anything!

My favourite colour? I don’t have one.

And my sister? She never wanted her cheeks pinched. And she is one of my best friends!! Always was, and still is.

Who cares about a blue dress?