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Violet Wang

Ms. Gardner

English 10H, 5th period

29 January 2018

Fingers Crossed

“Your fingers” said Ms. Rose as she fluttered her own set to the class, “each have just one muscle -

the arrector pili muscle.” Justin Novak, then famed at Kenilworth for getting a perfect score on every test,

immediately used his arrector pili muscles to jott down the foreign sounding muscle in his notes. The rest

of my 7th grade biology class examined and flexed their own 10 fingers. How could this one muscle, one

band of protein filaments, yield such fine precision ? Ms. Rose continued, “And, there are 5 bones in each

finger - the carpals, metacarpals, and proximal, intermediate, and distal phalanges”. I used my fingers to

count out the 10 sets of 5 - fifty individual bones in total, united to form my thumbs, pinky, pointer,

middle, and ring fingers.

Fifty individual states form the United States; fifty bones make up my ten fingers.

When I was younger, my grandpa would religiously make sure that I drank a cup of milk with every

meal, thinking it would be the catalyst for a growth spurt. He would closely examine each of my ten long

fingers and exclaim with 2 enthusiastic thumbs up that they foreshadowed tall height in the future. I

crossed my fingers every time he measured me, hoping I had grown.

While, my height never changed much, my age always moved with me. When preschool started, I

would always come home with dirty hands. Some days, my fingers would be caked in mud from molding

mini houses in the dirt. Other days, they would be brightly colored from finger painting or stained with

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blood from my frequent bloody noses. One day, I even stuck 3 of my fingers into the pencil sharpener. I

was shocked when I was left with bloody fingertips and torn skin instead of the perfectly sharpened nails I

had imagined. As time went on, my mom would cover my fingers in bitter spray to ensure I wouldn't bite

my fingernails. I enjoyed this tedious attention. When my brother was born, I was so jealous of the

attention he got that I slammed a door on my thumb. I do remember how the tip turned dark purple, like it

had visited the Underworld, but moreover I remember how my parents finally diverted their attention to

me again.

When kindergarten started, the buzz of a new school and new friends excited everyone. My new best

friend Nia would whisper to me about her crush on the cashier at McDonald's and how she hadn't returned

a library book in 3 weeks. Confessions would tumble out, such as the time I had eaten a chocolate bar in

Trader Joe's without paying for it. I'd describe the sparkling diamond ring I would wear on my ring finger

when I married George, the fastest runner in the class. These secrets were always sealed. Nia and I would

lock pinkies and say in unison “pinky swear to not tell anyone,” before erupting in giggles. This pinky

bond glued together the pieces of our friendship.

I never realized how strong the pinky could be. To me, the pinky was just the humble 5th finger, as

fragile as a glass menagerie and dainty like a teacup. It is shorter, thinner, and seemingly weaker, just as I

was when compared to my classmates. However, Laurie Rogers, an occupational therapist, states that,

“The pinky finger contributes to 50% of hand strength.” I realized that, although small, my pinky finger is

strong enough to hold every vulnerable secret side of not just me, but also those closest to me.

It wasn't just my pinky that made me feel vulnerable. In first grade, the big words “subtraction”

and “addition” were suddenly introduced. With the new addition of no nap time, I was groggily confused

and it took me weeks to differentiate between the two. However, my teacher Mrs. Conover taught me how

to add and subtract by counting my fingers. “1 + 2” became the count of my thumb to my middle finger:

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1-2-3. This new way to make use of my fingers lent me vast insight on how mathematics works, even

today. However, in 4th grade, when I was learning long division, Mrs. Conover was the victim of a

murder suicide. A simple finger on a gun trigger, and she was gone.

I learned that fingers really are as powerful as they are vulnerable. Mrs. Conover had helped me up

the staircase, each step a new skill, and carried me when I got frustrated. In the weeks following, Lean on

Me was played countless times to help heal our grieving community. My classmates and I would hold

hands, fingers intertwined for support as we sang for her. Today, I remember Mrs. Conover for giving out

her whole hand to me when I didn't extend a finger in return.

You just call on me brother, when you need a hand

We all need somebody to lean on

My emotions - happiness and sadness - found an outlet through dance. I would feel the music pump

through my body, severing the strings holding me down on earth. I could go anywhere and do anything.

However, it wasn't long before the constraints and the rules set in. “Technique!” My dance teacher would

scold as she tapped down my rogue pinky finger. The older girls would tell me “pointer up, soft thumb,

and three fingers down.” The single arrector pili muscle in each of my fingers listened closely and

meticulously memorized this form. Even so, I always cross my fingers for good luck before dance

performances.

When my grandma saw me dance and examined my abnormally long fingers after a performance,

she was positive that I would be a piano prodigy. She convinced my mom to sign me up for lessons, to

which I reluctantly agreed. However, my fingers were too awkward for the delicate grand piano. The

frequent slips of my fingers on the wrong note led to echoes of my own feeling of cringe resonating in my

head. I could never hear the music; I could only ever the sounds of my fingers failing and messing up.

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While piano led to frustration with my fingers, art gave me freedom. I could mix indigo with

cerulean to make an endless sky. The subtle touch of titanium white with my pointer finger gave me more
precision to add fluffy clouds than a brush could. While scenery came naturally, hands were always a

challenge. It was hard not to make the fingers look like sausages, not to mentioning capturing their

personalities. The pointer is accusing, the middle is angry, the ring is loving, the pinky is shy, and the

thumb is wise. Our personalities stem from these characteristics, but we can decide how they are

expressed.

In 7th grade, the thumb that I had once jealousy bruised in a door became my way of

communication. I would text my friends for hours, my thumbs gliding across the keyboard, responding to

the scandalous gossip that middle school brought. My right thumb would swipe to reveal new drama with

Kiara on Snapchat. My left thumb posted the pictures I thought would look *finger quote* cool on

Instagram, judged by my peers with the virtual click of a thumbs up or down.

According to the National Library of Medicine, a finger is “a limb of the human body and an organ

of manipulation and sensation”. I learned that fingers can bring joy, but also betrayal. The middle finger,

a huge taboo in elementary school, became a norm. Elementary “friends” would point their accusatory

fingers at you. Pinky swear bonds were torn. I learned that people change, but I also learned to forgive

with a flutter of my fingers.

Ten fingers helped me develop as a person, molding my expression so that I could bloom like a rose.

My arrector pili muscles helped me feel joy, frustration, and grief. The fifty bones in my fingers guided

me to build friendships and passions. I’ve only traveled to a few locations in 8 out of fifty states and I

have so many more places to travel in my journey. I only have ten fingers, but they give me infinite

opportunities. Fingers crossed that I'll choose the right ones.