"What are those kids doing?"
We were on our way to our piano lessons in the old Chevy pick up. I hated being behind buses, especially school buses and even today I try to avoid them. Two children in the back seat of the bus were holding up curled fingers in front of their faces.
"Those are beaver teeth mom."
That was all that I wanted to say. I continued to look at the back of the bus reading the various signs - "makes wide right hand turns" - "stop when lights are flashing." It was easier than looking at those kids in the back seat.
"Why are they doing that?" I heard mom say.
My sister, who was sitting on the hump between the seats, just looked back and forth between mom and me. She was so naive, but then again, she was never miserable, she was never bitter. I was a cynic at six years old. I blame a woman who had no business being a first grade teacher. I was a happy child before I went to school.
"They're making fun of my teeth mom."
Her head whipped around so fast that my sister jumped. Brief eye contact was all that was needed to send her into a tirade.
"Those little bastards. I'd like to drag them out of that bus."
I never wanted her to act on her anger. When parents try to control a situation for their kids, it just makes the kid more of a target. I had understood this idea when I was six in the first grade with Mrs. Ridge standing over me with those thick glasses and lumps and wrinkles under her eyebrows. She truly had taught me how to hate, to feel hate. I never told my mom about her until much later. I didn't want her coming to school like she continually did for my sister.
Not fitting in has always been an issue. Mom always told me that I didn't fit in with the other children because they had poor upbringings, or because I was smarter than they were and they resented it. I used to buy into that, especially when the third grade kids silently decided that I should be named "The Dictionary". It should have been something that would make me proud. Instead, it made me feel ashamed that I knew so many words that they didn't know. It was not something that I could just stop doing. The words I used were the ones that I was comfortable with. I just couldn’t fit into their way of speaking.
I had braces put on my beaver teeth when I was thirteen. I would have these painful contraptions on my teeth for the following four years. This was one of the new avenues for the society in junior high and high school to torment me. Don't misunderstand. I am happy that I went through the ordeal, but it was another reason to not fit in. I am sure you can think of kids on your block that don't fit in. Their soulful eyes and silent mouths never let you in to really know them. No one truly knows kids that are like this. They don't let you into the crevices that protect the sweet child that is inside. They keep that hidden from the back seat bastards.
I never liked to do the little play activities that all of the other kids did. I didn’t want a Barbie, I didn’t want a Tonka truck or anything. I liked to talk to adults, walk around the farm playing with the animals, playing “make-believe” with my sister, catching frogs in the swamp, or collecting caterpillars and feeding them until they turned into a cocoon or chrysalis and then hatched into something beautiful. I was hoping that I was in my pupa state and that someday I too could be a butterfly.
My grandpa was a brilliant man who taught me how to play chess at the age of six. He stopped playing chess with me when I was seven because he just couldn’t win any more. It was not because he was a poor player, it was because my mind was like a steel trap. I could read and write at the age of four, I could utter complete sentences by the time I was ten months old. Most people would view this and say, what on earth is she complaining about? You try being the only one that can read and write in a class of fifteen children your age. You don’t fit in.
There are days where I wish that I was simple, that I could have been happy with “Candyland” or “Shoots and Ladders,” that I talked at the normal age and had perfect teeth. The days that I felt like this the most were when family and friends would dote on my sister. As a child, she was beautiful. She was born with a head of beautiful brunette hair that never fell out. She had straight teeth, was taller than I was and was very outgoing. The word always used to describe her was “beautiful,” the word to describe me was “cute”. I did not like that word. Puppies were cute, kittens were cute, little babies were cute. I did not want to be cute, but cute I was and cute I would remain until this very day.
My sister did, however, have a serious flaw that none of us were aware of. She had a scar on her brain that was causing petit seizures from birth up until she was nine when she had a grand mal seizure.
My sister did grow out of the epilepsy by the time she was fourteen, but she is left with a scar on the logic side of her brain that makes it difficult for her to learn. This became another part of life making me different from other children. I was chronologically younger, but I was the older sister and still am. I don’t mind this, but it is an odd situation for a child growing up. I always included my sister with my play friends. It was strange for my friends because she was three years older than I was. This caused many rifts between us in our teenage years. I used to even help her with her college work while I was in 10th grade. Sit back and reflect on how this would separate you from other children your age. Brain child, double responsibilities, just ten more ways to not fit in and for you to further pull into yourself knowing that your are irreversibly different from other kids your age.
CHAPTER TWO