Jacquelyn Strickland

Growing up in Texas I witnessed and experienced many encounters with the then unknown (or unspoken) oppressive concepts of sexism, classism, and racism (by association.) It was because of these experiences and my passionate desire for fairness that I became a social justice activist around the age of 9. This young girl did not hesitate to adamantly and innocently defend my mother’s black friend, Aretha, by responding:  “Yes!  We drank out of grandma’s ice tea goblets!”  And yes, “they came into our house!”  These answers were in response to the neighbor’s interrogation of “Did you have black people (replace the N-word here) in your house?  Did they drink out of the same glasses as you?

On the playground, I was keenly aware of the children who were left out. My anger at the teachers chatting at the gym door grew when they did not seem to know what I knew about feeling left out. At any given recess, I would offer to play with anyone that I sensed needed a friend. Often it seemed a temporary eclectic friendship circle formed. This type of empathy can inevitably lead to chronic overstimulation for we HSPs, and this was certainly true in my case.

Any concern about making good grades seemed to take a back seat to my empathy and be in competition with overstimulation, especially in high school. There my depth of processing took over as I became aware of the many kinds of privilege, cliques, and stereotypes floating through the hallways. Luckily, at least once a month, I was given permission to stay home from school after pleading that I was just too tired to continue.

Unlike many HSPs, I never had an inherent sense of not belonging, at least not because of my sensitivity. In fact, I was often praised for my empathy and deep sense of caring about others. Perhaps this was due to the strong attachment style that was forged with my mother. Instead, my wounds and sense of not belonging came from being keenly aware that my Mother, no matter how many long hours she worked, could not provide the kinds of enrichment I sensed was provided to many of my friends. The usual “write about your summer vacation” left me feeling anxious and like I didn’t belong. Instead of Disneyland, the beach, horseback riding, swim lessons, or dance lessons, I struggled to find a way to basically say I did nothing except build forts with wet sheets on our sagging clothesline. I was embarrassed to say I rode my imaginary horse Trigger around the neighborhood. So many times I wanted to lie and say I had a real horse named Trigger. In so many ways, I did have this horse, and I joyfully connect with him as a companion when I am hiking in Colorado where I now live.

For the most part, I kept these inner wounds and shame about being poor hidden. I was blessed to be able to be part of a small circle of girlfriends – one I have known since first grade, and some I still consider a friend today.