Different

At eleven years old I attended a New School for half of every day, because two teachers there were able to meet my academic needs. That arrangement made me a little bit different.

The kids at the New School wore fancy clothes. At eleven, I didn’t know much about fancy clothes, and I didn’t have a wide variety from which to choose. And so they laughed at me. With precocious intuition I felt embarrassed and hurt, not only for myself, but because I sensed an embedded attack on my family’s ability to provide me with a more fashionable wardrobe. I didn’t tell my parents. I accepted that I was just a little bit different.

Within a week of school starting, I began holding my breath each morning as I walked into the classroom. I pretended not to hear the cutting, hateful remarks that came from all across the room. I smiled and sat in my chair. Except for the day when I went to my chair and found dead crickets in the seat. The room erupted. I pretended that it was funny to me, too, as I dumped the crickets in the floor.

And then beneath a crooked smile – the only kind you can muster when your little heart is broken into a million pieces - I held back tears with a strength reserved for the most painful, wretched ticks of the clock. And I remember with piercing clarity thanking God in that moment that I was able to keep from crying.

During that school year I developed an incredibly rare skin condition that was difficult to diagnose and treat. It lasted for months. The New School kids had their way with me.

Take off your mask. It isn’t Halloween yet.

And, really, what could I say? So I said nothing. And sat at my desk, excruciatingly embarrassed by the skin in which I lived.

During recess I considered myself fortunate when the New School kids allowed me to join them. I learned to cope. I accepted their caste system, and the position to which I had been relegated.

I wondered whether I would be happier if I were more like them.

Nicer clothes. Quicker wit.

But I wasn’t like them. In so many ways, I was just a little bit different.

I told my dad that I was sick as often as I could on the mornings he took me to school. I wasn’t lying. But I never shared the source of my hurt. I conceded internally that the consequences flowing from my differentness were mine alone to navigate.

In junior high and high school, many of the New School kids became friends of mine. Without being asked, I forgave the transgressions. But I never was able completely to separate the scars from the people who caused them. And I vowed never to make myself so vulnerable again.

Into early adulthood I struggled mightily with being different. In anything. My internal response channeled the stunted emotions of an eleven year old.

I am uncomfortable laughing at myself. I don’t do well as the butt of even the most well-intentioned and lighthearted joke. I retreat. I become mildly defensive. Or I smile and squirm inside.

Today I wear nice clothes. And I have developed a quick wit.

Eleven years old matters a lot.

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Inspired today by my dear friend Laura to write honestly.

photo by willgame