Odd Kid Out

A few weeks ago, I made the request to all my family on Facebook to send me photos of myself as a child. I only had 3: a baby picture I stole from the family album the day before I left home to use in the slide show at my high school graduation, and two others that mysteriously appeared in one of my own photo albums without me having the foggiest idea how they got there. I was feeling a lack of personal history that wasn't steeped in violence, something other than the crap that creeps into my nightmares. Yesterday, a fat manila envelope arrived in the mail from my great-aunt Carolyn. I hurried upstairs and dumped it out on the coffee table, and it was the pictures I wanted: lots of them. Snapshots and wallet photos and portraits chronicling my entire childhood, from newborn-- when I still had the oxygen tubes in my nose and was tiny enough to fit perfectly into my father's hand -- to an 18 month-old who couldn't yet focus her eyes because the surgery to correct them wouldn't happen for several more months, to a precocious preschooler in pink, frilly dresses. Kindergarten. First grade. Various Halloweens. Senior pictures. It was more than I ever could have imagined I'd get.

As it seems to always go with memories, sometimes you laugh and sometimes you cry. I did both. I was sitting there going through all those pictures grinning like a fool and wiping my eyes at the same time. It got me thinking about things, and then I got an email from Sarah and decided to sit down and write this entry: because I don't think you can have a blog about living with disability without at least describing a little bit about what it was like to grow up with one. And by "grow up" in this instance, I mean specifically "be around other kids".

Kids, my friends, can be mean little bastards. Don't get me wrong: I kind of like them these days. I even want a couple. But that doesn't change the fact that there are kids in the world who seem only to exist to make another kid's life hell. I met some of those kids during my tenure at public school. I don't remember kindergarten being a problem, but by the time I made it to first grade I was plagued by bullies. They called me names, quacked like ducks and mocked my gait when they saw me coming, hid my library books, stole things from my desk, and never let me play with them at recess. One of my teachers instituted the barbaric practice of letting that day's line leader pick the first kid who got to go out on the playground, who would then pick the next kid, and so on and so forth. I never got picked. I was always last, standing there alone, and the teacher would finally tell me to just go play. I'd still like to punch that woman in the face for the daily humiliation her brilliant idea caused me.

On a day I will never forget for as long as I live, I was sitting at lunch with my fifth grade class. The boy next to me was the school bully, out to make a name for himself by traumatizing as many of his classmates as possible. When I wasn't watching, he spat in my food. Not inclined to inspect my food while in the process of eating it, I took a bite. The entire table erupted into laughter. The boy told me what he had done after I'd swallowed. I bolted from the table and ran to hide with tears streaming down my face, all the kids still laughing behind me. I chose a bathroom as far away from the cafeteria as I could get, up the hall and down a flight of stairs, where I leaned against the marble ledge above the sinks and sobbed till I thought I'd break in half. One of the first grade teachers found me and held me while I cried myself out, then helped me wash my face and led me back to class. It wasn't the last time I cried over being teased: I was the odd kid out. Every kid gets teased; I know that. But kids with obvious disabilities like mine get absolutely tortured. There was no way I could hide the pitching gait or the giant leg braces or the bad hand or the specially padded chair meant to ease the strain on my twisted back. I was too visible. I always have been.


Things are a lot better now that I'm an adult, but sometimes I still feel as though people are secretly staring at me and whispering about what a freak I am behind my back. I hide my insecurity by being overly friendly: I'll go up to a complete stranger in the campus dining hall, introduce myself, and sit down. I don't want anyone to see how unsure I really am.

Someone once asked me what animal I would be if I got the chance to shape-shift for a day, and I said a panther: they're sleek, quiet, fast and practically invisible; all the things I'm not. I'd love to prowl the night on silent paws, for once not drawing attention to myself, for once not so much in the public eye. Secretly, I envy quiet, stealthy, graceful things: I will never get the chance to be one. I am a woman who can't even tiptoe. But I make the best of what I've got by having a personality that's worth paying attention to, since I'm going to be noticed anyway. I talk loudly and laugh at top volume, un-apologetically. My smile is as big as my voice. I have a quick wit and a sense of humor to match, and I love being that way, but don't let me fool you: underneath that natural air of confidence is a girl in knee-high braces trying to fit in, the odd kid out as a grown woman. You don't have to cater to her, or walk on eggshells around her, but if you happen to catch a glimpse of her, try to be kind. She and I will thank you for it.