The Bloomer Pooper

When I was six, I sat in first grade with soiled bloomers, refusing the school bathrooms that terrified me.

One shout about the smell. One teacher’s pointed finger. One walk of shame across the playground at recess, when everyone could see.

The custodian covered her nose with her sari as she led me to the babies’ room, where diapers were changed.

Six years old. Already marked. “The Bloomer Pooper.”

***

Now I create small tokens with my hands—each one carrying the memory of that child who just wanted to be seen with kindness.

In my studio, surrounded by color, I shape little vessels for dignity. Pocket-sized reminders that say:

You are not your worst moment.

You are not what others labeled you.

When I place a token in someone’s palm, in that brief moment of a fleeting touch is everything I needed then: mercy, recognition, the gentle acknowledgment that we’re all carrying something we never meant to hold.