Cry Baby's Story

Cry Baby

My name is Cry Baby.

It's not a nickname or anything. I've been told the story only a few times, but I know it by heart. It adds to my identity.

I was born on a rainy day. It was the kind of day that I love: gloomy, overcast skies, rain dripping like teardrop from the lonely clouds above. My mom had a long labor, much longer than my brother's.

My dad wasn't there. When I was told the story, he claimed there was a demand at his job, but I'm not a little kid anymore. I can figure out the truth.

My brother, Henry, was there. He was only four years old but very smart for his age. I always think he could've done such greater things in life, with brains like his.

After a long and agonizing delivery, I was born. At school I remember them teaching us something once, something about babies. They said it's normal for babies to cry, and there's actually a problem if they don't. Good thing, because I cried. A lot. More than normal, actually. Mom always told me that even the patient, loving nurses were becoming irritated because I cried so much.

“Oh, she's a cry baby,” my mom had moaned to the nurses.

The next part always made me laugh. Henry heard Mom say this and on my birth certificate he wrote “Cry Baby”. You would think my mom would have changed it, but...well, she was too full of anesthesia and alcohol to notice.

It never really bothered me as a child. I wasn't made fun of because there weren't really any children in my neighborhood.

Until the winter of the first year I was supposed to be in kindergarten.

I was young then, so of course I don't remember it all. But I do know that for some reason, Dad really wanted to move to this town. He kept telling us that it was for work, but sometimes in the middle of the night I would hear him and Mom screaming at each other. Mom would yell something and he would always just respond “work”.

But we did end up moving. I was five years old that winter, but I was supposed to have started kindergarten that fall. I'd never even been to preschool. But when we moved, I was enrolled in the public school there. Since I started so late, I was behind all.the other kids. To make matters worse, I learned the hard way that kids can be cruel.

“Cry Baby! Cry Baby!” they would chant, chasing me down the hall. Yes, that was my name, but the way they shouted it was purposefully demeaning.

I gave them what they wanted. My name was Cry Baby and I was the cry baby. Every day they would tease and taunt me, and I would do nothing but cry.

As my classmates and I grew, they seemed to gain some maturity. They gave me a slight break from the constant bullying and though it wasn't much, I was incredibly grateful.

But my elementary and middle school years passed, and with high school came a fresh new struggle.

The beginning of my freshman year is when I really began to outwardly express myself. I donned my now signature hairstyle: a two-toned look, and developed my own sense of style. My appreciative classmates, however, didn't take as kindly to this change.

Somewhere along the lines, the bullying relapsed and got worse. People seemed to start caring about my name again. Just like in kindergarten they would follow me repeating “Cry Baby!” until I began to cry again. A high school cry baby.

I would spend my time alone, talking to myself as though I were two different people, comforting myself.

“They call you cry baby, cry baby, but you don't fucking care,” I often whispered to myself through tears.

Of course my family was of no comfort to me. They had their own problems.