Sight
by Oluwanifemi Temitope Adetunji
Honorable Mention in Zinc’s 2022 College Essay Contest
I picked out these black-framed rectangular-shaped spectacles, making sure they had the blue tag on them, a sign that my insurance covered them, cognizant of my mother’s presence as I did not want to burden her. I tried them on. It was like I had taken my hands and stuck them into a crevice in the Earth, peeling apart the fuzzy, obscure layer and opening myself to a brighter version. I no longer felt the particular anxiousness that came with raising my hand from the back of the class to ask to be moved up to see the projector. At this moment, the glasses made me feel weightless, like I could go out and experience the world from a new perspective. From that summer day in August before my fifth-grade year, my glasses became a significant part of my identity. As an 11-year-old, I felt like Hannah Montana, living a double life now that I had the gift of this artificial device that allowed me to see more clearly.
The gift of seeing with more clarity also enhanced my insecurities, bringing them to the surface where I constantly saw them. At my predominantly white school, my glasses made me stand out, as did other parts of my identity. Walking through the halls every day, standing taller than my peers, I tried to keep tunnel vision as I walked to class, holes being burnt through my back, feeling the weight of my classmates' criticism. I couldn’t afford the big name brands for clothing, the fancy vacations, or the athletic team sweatshirts; I felt ashamed. But, I quickly learned how to “code switch,” trying desperately to fit in with my peers. Spending too much time picking out my outfits before school, and practicing my tone of voice to ensure it sounded “proper.” I felt like a chameleon, changing my behaviors to adapt to my surroundings, so much so that my authentic self became unclear.
Yet as I got to high school and grew older, I found solidarity and community in the growing number of black students at my school. I surrounded myself with friends that I could relate to in terms of my lived experiences. We bonded over cultural traditions in the African Diaspora and laughed at the behaviors within our respective communities (eating jollof rice and swapping stories about respect for elders in African culture versus American). I gave presentations in assembly about topics ranging from the Crown Act to the importance of youth activism. As I stepped into more prominent roles, such as leading the Black Student Union, I was able to find my voice and advocate for social justice issues that mattered to me. I focused on what to be proud of rather than my insecurities. Instead of working to blend in and hide behind my glasses, I began to see them as something that made me stand out in courage and strength. People associated me with my glasses instantly, and I was proud to be known in this way. My glasses gave me confidence and my enhanced sharpness allowed me to discover a side of myself that effaced insecurities and doubts about my place in the world.
I sat in the backseat of my mom’s car on a rainy day in March of 2020. My doctor had successfully convinced my mom to let me try contacts. Listening to the soft pitter-patter of the rain on the windshields, my glasses suddenly felt heavier. The temple tips weighed down on my earlobes, the frames poked my cheeks with any movement I made with my mouth, and the nose pads slipped on the bridge of my nose. My glasses now served as a window into my personhood, and during that car ride, I realized how much I had grown to appreciate them. I considered them my signature.
And, as for those contacts, well, they are still at the optometry shop.