(story by Mir from Woulda Coulda Shoulda)
My memory isn't all that fantastic. Before the age of… oh, say, seven or so, there's not a lot that I remember. What I do recall from those early years is stored in my brain in small snapshots.
One of those notable memories is from preschool. I went to a Montessori school, which means that we were encouraged to explore and be independent, and probably also to do all sorts of things that nowadays a regular preschool would consider an accident waiting to happen.
What I remember was that I was making something with paper—maybe a book?—and I needed to staple the papers together. So I got the stapler from wherever it resided, only to discover that it was out of staples. No problem! I knew where the box of staples was, and I was three or four years old, after all, plenty capable of handling a stapler.
I opened the stapler, pulled back the piece that shoved the stapler towards the front, and carefully extracted a "brick" of staples from the box. This was actually a task where having small fingers was an advantage; settling the refill staples into the slot was easier for me than for grownups. I flipped the top of the stapler back into place, and grabbed the entire top of the stapler to squeeze the staple holder part until it clicked into the top of the device.
Maybe if I'd been older, I would've realized that the easiest way to close the stapler up would've simply been to staple my paper. But for whatever reason, it seemed very important to me to make sure it was clicked back into place before I tried to use it. And so I went to close it up by using my hands, and somehow, I stapled my finger.
I remember a burst of pain, the horror of seeing blood and a staple that was embedded in my fingertip. I remember screaming—loudly—and a teacher swooping in and picking me up. I cried as she carried me through the room, then upstairs into an area where I'd never been before, into what must've been the teacher break room. She set me down on an unfamiliar counter and examined and then bandaged my finger.
I remember that she gently teased me while she did it. "Mir, the stapler is for paper, not for fingers, silly!" I remember my cries tapering off as I tried to take in everything I was seeing in this new room, and as I watched my finger being treated to more band-aids than I remember any previous injury being given.
I remember being a minor hero, afterward, for a few days. I'd stapled my finger and lived to tell the tale. I'd seen the secret room where the other kids hadn't been and I'd gotten a lot of band-aids and all of the teachers had checked on me to see how I was doing.
Now, the truth is that I hadn't done it on purpose. It was an accident. But the other truth is that I kind of enjoyed the attention I got in the wake of the Staple Incident. In the small circle of Montessori tots, I'd attained the closest thing to celebrity that one could reach. Sure, it was short-lived, but it made me feel important and invincible.
I laugh, now, thinking about preschool-me, adding a little swagger to my walk. "Yeah, I stapled my finger, I needed some band-aids, but I'm okay now." I didn't remember the screaming, the blood; I focused on the fact that I'd gone on to staple another day (though I can tell you that I never put my finger in the stapler again, after that).
We use the term survivor, a lot, in our society, trying to return power to people who may feel like they've been victims. "You're not a victim, you're a survivor," we say. But there's rarely an inherent swagger in it the way I felt all bad-ass after the stapler incident. Maybe it's because the things we often talk about surviving are a little more serious than stapling, I know, but still. I've survived a lot since I tangled with rogue office supplies in Montessori. Not a lot of it left me feeling invincible the way that incident had.
So what's the difference? Was I any less of a survivor, when I was older, or was I just more likely to buy into the shame and secrecy that tends to surround things that "shouldn't" happen? I'm not sure. I think about my kind preschool teacher, who'd hefted me up onto her shoulder, soothed my fears, gently teased me in a way that made me laugh. I think about how we should all have someone like that when life doesn't go the way it should; someone to make us feel like it's okay and we're actually pretty awesome for getting through it.
Being a survivor is pretty bad-ass, whether it's s staple or something worse. I'm going to try to remember that.
Have you ever stapled your finger (literally or metaphorically)? Has survivor-hood changed for you over the years?
(read more Mir here.)
This story gives me the shudders of recollection. It’s first grade and little Timmy (really, that was his name) stapled his tongue. His tongue!
He may have survived, but I’ve been scarred forever.
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Oh ACK. Yeah, I can see where that would leave a mark on one’s psyche!
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I had the SAME stapler incident happen to me…only I was in the 9th grade when I accidentally stapled my finger. All the way into my finger. It was more gross than anything, but I do remember the teacher taking the stapler away from me…for my safety.
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Blessed are the stapler-wranglers, for they shall keep the rest of us dummies from hurting ourselves.
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I too am a stapler survivor. I can’t even remember how it happened. I was in the 10th grade, in 2nd year French class and I was stapling some papers together. I guess I just wasn’t paying attention. A single drop of blood hit the floor in the classroom. And let me tell you, by the time I graduated, that single, dried and ancient drop of blood was still on the floor. GROSS!
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I remember 1st grade… sharpening up a lead (graphite)pencil in one of those manual sharpeners that was mounted on the wall of every classroom. Of course, I had to sharpen it to a razor point, spending close to 1 minute making it just perfect. once done, I proceeded to somehow stab myself with it in the finger- deep and dark and bloody and ugly. 30+ years later I still have the dark ‘lead’ mark in my finger easily visible… my first tattoo…
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Okay, you win. I have no souvenir of my staple incident.
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Frank, I have one of those, too, in the meaty part of my palm. Mine was from the pencil of a 2nd-grade bully I pinned to the floor when the teacher was out of the room, though. He didn’t mean to poke me, but I sure meant to show him I wasn’t going to listen to his crap anymore.
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Me too! I have had a pencil tattoo since grade four. I worried for weeks that I was slowly dying of lead poisoning. But didn’t tell anyone for fear I might need a needle to treat it.
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Frank,
I have the lead mark too; mines in my calf bc we had to take a written test at PE in 6th grade, but then we still had to “do PE.” Teacher told all of us to stick it in our sock. Not sure why I was the lucky one who stabbed myself, but I do have the nasty scar to prove it.
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Yeah, I totally stapled my finger on purpose. I was probably three, and I clearly remember the vision of holding my finger up with a piece of paper stapled to it, and how cool it would be to wave it around with the paper sort of wafting in the breeze. I was so sure my big brother would be so impressed with my paper trick…
I don’t think my 3 yr old brain had grasped how the staple goes RIGHT THROUGH the paper, I’d kind of figured it was part of stapler attachment magic. I was so surprised when it hurt.
That’s probably my earliest clear memory.
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Oh ouch. Reading that made me wince! I can totally see how you wouldn’t think of the pain part, though. You poor thing.
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I don’t know. I have spent the last several years firmly rejecting the term victim but not even considering the label ‘survivor.’ I don’t think it’s out of any feeling of shame over things – shame for what? I actually think it’s because I am far, far to aware of the allure of being the person-something-horrible-happened-to, of being (as I used to put it) the Pity Princess.
It’s a terribly attractive crutch – I can’t do that, I’m too sad because of this tragedy. I can’t go there, it reminds me of Things. But… I have the rest of my life to live and if I don’t do the hard things (and the irritating things I would want to skive off of using any plausible excuse) then I don’t think I would like the person I would become.
So not victim, not survivor, maybe just someone doing the best they can?
NB – I also reject the common comment ‘ooh, I don’t know how you do it, I could never be that strong.’ Yes you could, because what else are you going to do? There are still kids to raise and work to do and LIFE to live even when you’re crushed and sad. That’s probably another reason the ‘survivor’ label bothers me!
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That “I don’t know how you do it, you are so strong!” thing has always bothered me too. A few years ago I went through a horrible year. My husband was deployed, I gave birth to a premature baby, and had to take care of my dying mother almost completely by myself. People would tell me I was so strong for going through it all, but I sure didn’t feel that way. I felt it was more “What other choice do I have?”
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Megan and Meghann, that’s sort of what I was trying to get at, here. I feel like the word and even experience of being a “survivor” is so loaded, in our society.
Surely there’s a way to celebrate surviving the hard stuff without glorifying it or using it as a crutch… isn’t there? Maybe?
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I don’t know. My attitude toward the word “survivor” has changed somewhat in the past few months.
My husband died 16 years ago, 18 months after a diagnosis of terminal colon cancer. I heard the “you’re so strong” message so much that it would make me angry. As Meghann so aptly put it, “What other choice do I have?”
But then, back in April I was diagnosed with breast cancer. After a few weeks of wallowing in “why me” self-pity, I got over it. Why NOT me? S**t happens, after all.
So, I was rather amazed at the number of women I was encountering who clearly could not deal with it. The hair thing, for example… I can not relate to a woman who is traumatized by the thought of losing her hair to chemo. In my mind, it’s a choice between hair and life–and it’s pretty clear cut to me.
I’ve heard women talk about being unable to even tour the infusion suite because they’re so terrified of chemo. Ok, I can relate to being afraid of chemo. I was terrified myself. But not so terrified that I was hysterical in the suite. Again, I don’t relate.
Maybe it’s a drama thing with some people. Maybe I’m an insensitive bitch. (I really don’t think I am, though, because I know for a fact that my positive attitude helped a woman who was just starting her treatment.)
All I know is that this time I feel like I’ve earned the badge of “Survivor” and while I won’t necessarily walk with a swagger, I sure will let it remind me of all the stuff I still plan to do.
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I did the same thing once, except that (1) I was trying to open the stapler, not close it, (2) I was an ADULT, and (3) it was my first day at a new job.
Yes, I really am that brilliant.
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Oof, I hope that was the worst day you ever had on that job!
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Mir-I went to a Montessori school and got to go to the special room too! For me, it was because I had been sitting on a cement block that was part of a playhouse when a little boy came up and grabbed my feet and pulled. It scraped my entire back along the corner of the cement.
I was most notoriously known for getting my finger stuck in a lab table in high school. They had to break the table to get my finger out, and the next class was delayed and everything. To this day, that table is still messed up, and the teacher tells the tale to incoming freshman to warn them of the perils of acting stupid like I had. It’s nice to have a legacy.
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I have come to dislike the words survivor and war (unless war is used as in actual military battle), but I disagree about the sentiment of people saying you’re so strong, they couldn’t do it, etc. Truth is most people will rise to the occassion that meets them, but doing it with grace is another thing all together. In the days where I didn’t feel strong, wasn’t sure I could do it, having someone else tell me I was strong refueled me a little and allowed me to fight another day.
I suppose I object to survivor and war not because they aren’t apt descriptions, but more because there just isn’t a lexicon adequate for anyone “fighting for their life” – whether that be a health crisis, a military action, or just juggling a multi-crap hand life has dealt.
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Ah… but I rarely feel I do it with grace! Does anyone? Mir – there’s an interesting take on this for you, that it’s difficult to feel one is ‘doing it right’ or ‘doing it well’ in difficult situations so claiming a title (if ‘survivor’ is a title) seems presumptuous.
Chris, I suppose having someone tell me how strong I was made me ashamed of the weakness they couldn’t see.
I think your point about vocabulary is interesting because throughout my whole experience I have found myself so frustrated that there aren’t any words, words that don’t already have other meanings or words that haven’t been stripped of their effectiveness because they are cliched – probably because of the paucity of the language. (and the English language is a deep and rich one). Difficult…
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I am a domestic violence and sexual assault survivor. I had trouble with the label for a long time. I was struggling, barely keeping things together, everything just seemed so hard – I felt like I was barely surviving, and it wasn’t anything to be proud of. But time and perspective have made me much more comfortable with it. Working with other women going through the hard part – including some of my abuser’s later victims – has helped me tremendously. It is easy for me to look at what they are going through and say – look at how well you’re doing! You didn’t have to get out – it was scary and hard – but you did it! You didn’t have to follow through with all the legal nonsense, but you did! You’re getting up and putting one foot in front of the other every day, even on your worst days. He told you again and again that you could never beat him, that you could never make it without him, but you are. And that’s something to be proud of. Saying it to them has finally allowed me to see it in myself. I could have allowed the damage he did to me be the end of it – I could have allowed myself to remain stagnant. But I didn’t. I fought for myself and my family. I worked my arse off to move ahead in the world. I fought my demons every step of the way, no matter how tempting it was to give into the fear and sadness. I confronted all the terrible things that happened to me, and came through better for it. I’m learning to cut myself some slack and recognize my hard work. As I’ve come to accept that, I’ve also been able to let go of the shame. Bad things happened to me, things that shouldn’t happen. But he’s the one who should feel ashamed, not me.
I am a survivor, and that’s pretty badass.
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“I am a survivor, and that’s pretty badass.”
You? Totally earned the title.
Loved this.
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What Megan said. Rock on with your bad self, Jen. This is what I’m talking about.
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Jen, you are more than a survivor, you are a hero.
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100% H-E-R-O (or she-ro, as the case may be).
“Saying it to them has finally allowed me to see it in myself.”
Amazing.
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Surviving never sounded like enough to me, after I made my way through some real trauma, I felt I deserved more than something that conjures up an image of washing ashore on a deserted island, weak and limp.
When I read this quote from Maya Angelou, the concept of survival changed for me: “My mission in life is not merely to survive, but to thrive; and to do so with some passion, some compassion, some humor, and some style.”
That’s where the bad-ass swagger comes in, honey.
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When I was a kid, I used to wonder how the Iran Hostages (anyone old enough to remember that?) survived. I used to wonder if I could; if I had it in me. I guess the thing is, and to the point so many of you have made, we don’t know till we’re in it, and when we’re in it…it’s more than surviving.
I guess I have the same reaction to “survival” as I do to “tolerance”…it’s just the other side of the line from its antithesis, which isn’t always good enough. I’ve always thought the Tolerance Museum ought be the Accepting Our Differences Museum, but that is less catchy.
Survival may be one of those things that just looks different to anyone that hasn’t been through it, regardless of how “it” defines or manifests itself.
To the Other Leanne’s point, for many, the will to survive is human. The strength to thrive though, that’s super, humans. In my opinion.
Us, we think you’re all bad-asses.
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Now you have me pondering why some things are “cool”, like surviving a grizzly attack or terrorist bombing, but it’s still all hush-hush to have survived rape or domestic violence. It should be just as bad-ass!
On the lighter side, I didn’t feel bad-ass when I accidentally stabbed my hand with a linoleum knife (still have the scar) in 4th grade, but I was the class dork already, so I was just embarrassed and ashamed. On the other hand, if the popular kid had done it to himself/herself, I’m sure it would have been another matter entirely.
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For myself, I think survivor is a term best used for someone who should otherwise have died. Like someone lost at sea then found, or making it through despite injuries from a horrible car crash. I was a victim of a childhood rape, I was 7. I didn’t survive that, as my life wasn’t ever in jeopardy. I did overcome it. That’s different, but it’s also just my opinion.
On a lighter note, I never stapled a body part but I did sew through my left thumb in home ec class in 7th grade. We were making sweatsuits. Two stitches made it before I stopped the machine with the needle still in my finger. It is really hard to remove a needle from a sewing machine with a thumb attached. Not only did we have to get the needle out (took pliers) but we had to pull out the string too. Blech, it was horrible at the time, but funny now.
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The multiple variations of the “you’re so strong but I could never….” are somehow comments that make it all about the commenter : we should feel sorry for them because we can manage hard situations and they can’t. Piffle. You just have to get on with it. Best compliment ever : “you’re going through a very hard time and I really admire the way you’re dealing with it.”
I agree with The Other Leanne that survival is not enough and I love the quote from Maya Angelou and Jen is definitely the most bad-ass commenter!
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