Born with a Scar
2
My birthmark was too much for them. It had to be a disease. A rash. A burn. Something taboo and unusual. It brought on curiosity. Snickers. Questions. Fear. Automatically I was an outcast by default. If I was touched, the disease might spread on their skin. If I was talked to, it would become airborne. It was my birthmark that classified me as weird.
But I was weird. Different. My ideas ran into corners most avoided. They ventured to treasures undiscovered. But if I shared them, and oh when I shared them, it was back in the box for me.
Shunned at such a young age had me already thinking lowly of myself. I was what they said I was going to become. “Cut up” was worn like a badge of honor. Sitting in the hallways was my drug. I didn’t want to hit it, but how could I resist. It gave me time to think and calm my self diagnosed ADHD and compulsive behavior. And the laughs and teases echoed back and forth though the hall. My name was an anthem for insults and “Jones”.
I’d pick at the scabs on my long, slender legs and be carefree. The beautiful innocence of a child. I know that no matter what I did, my hair would always be too short; it would never be straight enough; my hair always a mess; I’d always be too tall; I’d always be too ugly; my hands always too big; Always too dumb; I’d always have no friends. So why not accept it and be happy? Why not be bald, nappy headed, giant, ugly, large handed, stupid, rebellious, and lonely and live with it?
As a child, it was hard for me to get into that mentality. I was supposed to have long, straight hair; petite in size; be beautiful; be obedient; be smart; have many friends. And I was too dumb to know that I was beautiful. I let them make me.
I was never what they wanted me to be.
But I was weird. Different. My ideas ran into corners most avoided. They ventured to treasures undiscovered. But if I shared them, and oh when I shared them, it was back in the box for me.
Shunned at such a young age had me already thinking lowly of myself. I was what they said I was going to become. “Cut up” was worn like a badge of honor. Sitting in the hallways was my drug. I didn’t want to hit it, but how could I resist. It gave me time to think and calm my self diagnosed ADHD and compulsive behavior. And the laughs and teases echoed back and forth though the hall. My name was an anthem for insults and “Jones”.
I’d pick at the scabs on my long, slender legs and be carefree. The beautiful innocence of a child. I know that no matter what I did, my hair would always be too short; it would never be straight enough; my hair always a mess; I’d always be too tall; I’d always be too ugly; my hands always too big; Always too dumb; I’d always have no friends. So why not accept it and be happy? Why not be bald, nappy headed, giant, ugly, large handed, stupid, rebellious, and lonely and live with it?
As a child, it was hard for me to get into that mentality. I was supposed to have long, straight hair; petite in size; be beautiful; be obedient; be smart; have many friends. And I was too dumb to know that I was beautiful. I let them make me.
I was never what they wanted me to be.