Being unique

Being different is tough. Questioning social norms is not normal. I am not sure if my mother knowingly instilled confidence in her children or if it was serendipitous – knowing her, it was likely intentional. As we grow older nostalgia kicks in and thinking back on childhood, I can very clearly remember one particular instance when my mother showed us without doubt that being different was being unique. She showed us that being different was to be celebrated – something to be proud of.

I was probably no older than 6 years old. It was “Rainbow Day” in class. Honestly, I don’t even understand what the whole concept was for. Children were expected to come to class dressed in the colors of the rainbow. I remember thinking I would dress in red – I always loved the color red. Red made me happy, but somehow the color never defined me; still does not.

Children share so much time painstakingly explaining their days to parents. Little details about events that happen at school become conversation topics that take hours. And parents… good parents, patient parents, have all the time in the world to listen to these little nothings. My mother was a good parent, an exceptionally patient parent when it came to listening to little nothings. Sometimes I think back and I wish I had kept it up as I grew older. I wish I had not gone into the “You wouldn’t understand” phase. Because she never, not once, gave me any reason to believe she wouldn’t understand. She always understood, she always listened. Her life revolved around my little nothings. My little nothings were as eventful to her as they were to me even when I was barely 6 years old.

So that afternoon, my mother came to know “Rainbow day” was coming up. Having two older children she did not need any explanations – She knew the drill. She told me Indigo was the way to go. I remember I was unsure in the beginning. I wanted to wear Red after all. But she took the time and explained to me how there will be many Reds, Greens, Blues and Purples – but there will be only one Indigo, me. I needed cajoling. I was worried about being different, I was worried how I would explain Indigo, and I was worried I would stick out like a sore thumb in a sea of Reds, Greens, Blues and Purples. My mother told me being different means being special. She showed me being different was something to be proud of. She taught me the true meaning of unique and how sometimes sticking to the social norms is boring. She then went on to show me pictures of my older sisters dressed in Indigo for their Rainbow day and she had me sold. I would be Indigo. I would be different, no… I would be unique!

Rainbow day was fabulous! I still remember coming back home that afternoon and telling her how everybody was intrigued by me; how every child secretly wished they stood out as much as I did; how I felt absolutely special. In the sea of secretly jealous Reds, Greens, Blues and Purples – I stood proud as an Indigo.

I sometimes wonder if I will ever be as smart, patient and intuitive as my mother was. She was wise beyond her time. She would have changed the world if she were given the chance to… Instead she shaped her world, her children, with values and little lessons that make me someone who wants to try to change the world. Some lessons you do not learn in books. This was one among them. Be unique and take pride in being different. Don’t be a Red, Green or Blue if you do not want to; especially if it doesn’t define you.

Thank you Amma for making me an Indigo!