Sally Jessy Raphael's Big Red Glasses

I got glasses in kindergarten.

They were pink. Or maybe they were supposed to be red. Either way, they were plastic and slightly too big for my face, which meant they slid down my nose every time I looked down to color.

I don’t remember not being able to see. I just remember suddenly being able to.

Leaves had edges.
Letters had shape.
People had expressions.

I remember thinking the world had been lying to me before that.

The first day I wore them to school, I didn’t think it was a big deal. I was five. My biggest concern was whether I would get the purple crayon before someone else did.

But children are anthropologists. They notice anomalies.

One boy asked why my eyes looked bigger.
Another asked if I was sick.
A girl told me I looked like a grandma.

I laughed when they laughed because that felt safer.

That was the first time I remember understanding that visibility is dangerous.

The glasses weren’t the problem. They helped me see.

But they also helped other people see me.

And being seen, I would learn, is complicated.

I started pushing them up less. I kept my head tilted down slightly. I became good at reading expressions before they formed fully.

When you move a lot — and we did — you learn quickly that fitting in is survival. Virginia to Kansas. Kansas to Louisiana. Louisiana to Texas. Each new classroom was a social experiment, and I was always the variable.

My sisters never seemed to struggle the way I did. Jennifer had pageant curls and trophies. Julia had speed and confidence. I had books I worked too hard at and a pair of glasses I couldn’t hide.

I loved animals because they didn’t notice the glasses. They didn’t care about rumors or beauty standards or who sat where at lunch. They either trusted you or they didn’t.

It was simple.

Humans were not.

Looking back, I don’t think the glasses made me insecure.

I think they made me observant.

When you grow up slightly outside the circle, you start studying it. You notice who leads. Who follows. Who performs kindness and who actually means it.

You become quiet.

Not because you have nothing to say.

But because watching feels safer than being watched.

I still wear glasses sometimes.

They’re not pink anymore. They don’t slide down my nose.

But every time I put them on, I remember the first lesson I learned at five years old:

Seeing clearly is a gift.

Being seen clearly is a risk.