What We Think We See In A Face Might Not Be The Case

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Back in high school, a Homecoming dance, an eavesdropped conversation, and a friend in the throes of childbirth, merged to place me in a state of mind my face would later betray. Even then, no one would know what my face was truly saying.

Ellie, a friend of mine, was about to give birth to a baby she’d ultimately place for adoption. She came from a family connected to mine in friendship, and we were all connected to her journey through concern and compassion.

On the night of my high school’s Homecoming dance — the night before the big Homecoming football game — I was busy with duties as class treasurer. I coordinated the finances of the dance, plus whatever other volunteer responsibilities I could grab so I wouldn’t have to show up too much in the gym where all the teenage dance hoopla bloomed wild and joyful in derelict over-stimulation.

I wanted to give my inner Shy Girl, who fake-smiled in situations like these, a nice break. Fake-smiling is normal, but for hours on end, it’s an arduous task. In intimate or familiar settings, I might be Clown Girl or Chillax Girl. But in a big crowd, Shy Girl came out and knew to keep busy.

Once students had arrived, I walked over to the room where the babysitter-faculty were sheltered during the event to report the ticket sales numbers we’d gotten thus far. On my way there, I passed the pay phone in the hallway and made a quick call. Ellie was in the hospital about to deliver her baby.

No news yet, so I hung up and started toward the middle of the building. I moved like a half-hearted snail, deep in thought, hurting for my friend, trying to imagine. I felt disconnected from the high school experience that night.

I remember the walk down the hallway like it was yesterday. I dragged my fingers along the lockers lining the walls. I was nowhere, drifting. Those kids in the gym dancing their hearts out, the boys trying to hit on the girls, the girls flirting back — normal, healthy teen stuff — seemed like such a distant idea.

As I approached the History room, I could hear the faculty discussing something, so I slowed to a crawl and eavesdropped outside, as any smart teen spy would do.

“Have you tallied who won Homecoming Queen and King, Larry?”

“Yeah. We have the winners.”

“Who won?”

I took a short silent breath. I was about to hear the outcome of the Homecoming vote. I happened to be one of the finalists — for whatever that’s worth — and here I’d be privy to top-secret information. Then — 

“It’s him. And her.”

Mr. Jones must have been pointing to the names on a piece of paper. My access to confidential information was squelched. But then — 

“Aww! That’s wonderful! She’s my favorite.”

“Yeah, me, too.”

“Same. She’s a good kid. So kind.”

Whaa?

This is when I knew it must be me they were talking about. Mr. Jones oversaw student activities. Since I worked so hard as a volunteer in that capacity, he must have been talking about me. I wanted him to be talking about me — especially on that night.

I didn’t care that I’d won Homecoming Queen, but that I was Mr. Jones’s favorite. Not only that, but I was everyone’s favorite — all these teachers. I was overcome by a huge wave of feeling loved and appreciated by my mentors.

This affirmed what I wanted to believe but sometimes couldn’t — I was good and loveable.

Like a skilled spy, I waited for the conversation to turn to other things before I briskly walked in as if I’d just breezed down the hallway. My demeanor was all business, but my heart was bursting with happiness and disbelief. I was an extra special person.

When Homecoming rolled around, I was nervous. How would I handle the attention? How would my life change now that I’d won a class vote? What would I wear?

Once my outfit was chosen — after long deliberation — I made my way to the high school, and mingled around by the football concession stand, chatting with friends. Soon it was halftime and the group of senior finalists for King and Queen walked out to the center of the field to hear the winners. I was a mess of emotion. I could hardly contain myself. Then — 

“Runner-ups,” said the announcer through the huge speaker system from the top of the stands, “For Homecoming Queen: Stephanie Wilson!”

I’ll never forget what happened next. My face dropped into a state of shock before I could grab hold of it and feign a happy staged expression. What? I didn’t win? The first place my eyes fell in my state of shock was Dana, the student facing the finalists waiting to hand out the tiara and roses to the real Queen.

Dana looked at me. She saw my look of shock, and to my mind, that could have only meant one thing to her — I was surprised I didn’t win because I cared so much about being Homecoming Queen.

But that wasn’t the case. My face meant that Mr. Jones and all the other faculty didn’t love me most. I wasn’t anyone’s favorite. I was the regular, meh-worthy nobody that I’d always suspected.

The rest of the game was a blur, something to get through. My mind was with Ellie and her family. It was disconnected from the Homecoming scene because real life had come a little early to my circle of friends and with it a disillusionment with cheery high school adolescence.

What I discovered on the football field that day as a teenager is still so hard to internalize— that we don’t know with certainty what someone’s face means. My interpretation of the facial expressions in others is not an exact science. It’s a prediction based on my best guess.

Even if I correctly guess that someone is surprised, how do I determine what they’re surprised about? There is no way to detect someone’s story. We don’t always detect our own story.

The best I can do is make a reasonable prediction and go from there. Go where? Good question. Hopefully, to compassion or curiosity. To ask or to give the benefit of the doubt. To wonder before assuming.

My old teenage struggles are barely recognizable today. Maybe I keep that memory alive because it continues to teach that when I assume something about someone else — or myself — I may very well be on shaky ground. Tread lightly. Question first, be certain later. You never know.

Honestly, I don’t even want to be certain later.

The other reason I keep that memory alive is that it’s in the pantheon of my historical journey to loving and appreciating myself. I don’t need to be a Queen of anything or someone’s favorite. I’m happy to simply be me.

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Have a nice week, friends.