Yeah, That Was Me

Remember the oddball kid in elementary school that was too quiet, too pale and always had nosebleeds - that was me. 

Every class had one of these unusual kids. I can say however, that I never intended on being the ugly duck or weird kid. One doesn’t simply choose these things; instead, weirdness chooses them. One might assume that the spindly kid lacking all natural athletic ability would have above average book smarts, as if nature wanted to balance the playing field; I’m here to report, that’s not always the case.

I was a dreamer with a fondness for art class. Pushing glittery Cherrios into a styrofoam ball with a pin during art class seemed, in my opinion, like a very productive and entertaining way to pass the time. Also, my mind was easily sidetracked by the nuances of what and how something was being said, rather than what was actually being said. I had an elementary teacher who scolded the unruly kids by proclaiming that she’d whip them with a wet noodle. You can only imagine the imagery that conjured in my mind.

I loved the smell of paper, which meant I spent more time smelling my textbooks rather than memorize what was inside. I didn’t care about what was inside. I also didn’t care about algebra. Algebra made no sense to me whatsoever, causing me to abandon all efforts of mastering it. I also didn’t much care for history: who conquered what and when. Those things had little to do with my everyday life.

My left-of-center attitude and quirkiness extended far beyond my elementary years. I did my senior term paper on Satanism. I liked that no one else chose it. I also liked that it dabbled in something taboo. My english teacher let me borrow his album of satanic chanting. Even though I couldn't imagine why he owned such an album, I sat in the dining room giving myself the creeps while listening to it. Due to the location of the dining room, I managed to fill the entire house with the unsettling chants. Needless to say, my parents retired early that evening. One of the snootier girls in school started a rumor that I was a Satanist. I wasn’t a Satanist anymore than a reporter interviewing a terrorist, is a terrorist. But the fact that I often wore all black only provided fodder for her claim. I wore black to feel confident and more secure. Coming from an alcoholic home, those two elements, where things for which I was perpetually lacking.

My closet is still laden predominantly with black clothes. I still get the occasional nosebleed, and I still like to smell paper, but I no longer sit in critical opposition to myself. I’ve come to accept the basket of oddball quirkiness that is me. And now at 42, I enjoy the confidence that comes not from being the first one picked in gym class (by the way, I was usually the second to the last one picked), but from having accepted one's self. This type of confidence - gets better with age. 

Sane