Art of Life

I was a fucked up little kid. Honestly.
Omg, what a freak! She likes to read, who likes that? Haha she’s like a boy. Her hair is short and she likes sports…heshe! Loser.
Those are the words I remember from my childhood. My early childhood, that is. I was that kid. The kid that teachers love. The kid that other kids love to hate.
It made me smart, I suppose. Now I have a large vocabulary; I can ace SAT and ACT English portions without studying.
It made me have a thick skin, I guess. I can not give a damn when my parents fight because my thick skin drags me so into denial I don’t even know it’s happening.
It made me aware. It made me hyperaware even now, of the slightest giggle cutting through the air. Is it aimed at me? Will it be aimed at me?
It made me competive, so freakin’ competive.
Dude, you just got beat by a girl?
I belonged in those moments. When I wasn’t at the bottom, when the guy I just stole the basketball from was there instead.
I lived in too-big shirts and baggy shorts and shorn at the ears hair.
I lived like a guy.
I dressed like one,I talked like one, I acted like one.
I envied guys. Their friendships were open, honest..macho-dependent, maybe, but not cliquey like girls. Not mean, not hurtful like girls.
Maybe, somewhere in the tangles of my head in the dark clouds, I almost wanted to be one, be a guy.
And that made my mother sad. Sad, mad…
The word ‘boy’ became a reprimand in our house.
Only boys do that. Stop acting like such a boy! You’re a girl, for heaven’s sake. Act like one.
Even now, if I throw a ball in the house, if I make a mess..I’m a boy. And that is bad, that is unexecusable…or so read the scars burned into my soul.