Short Stories/Song Lyrics

37 - To This Day

When I was a kid, I used to think pork chops and karate chops were the same thing. I though they were both pork chops. Because my grandmother thought it was cute and because they were my favourite, she let me keep doing it. Not really a big deal. One day, before I realized fat kids are not designed to climb trees, I fell out of a tree and bruised the left side of my body. I didn't want to tell my grandmother about it 'cause I was scared I'd get in trouble for playing somewhere I shouldn't have been. A few days later, my gym teacher noticed the bruise and I got sent to the principal's office. From there, I was sent to another small room with a really nice lady who asked me all sorts of questions about my life at home. I saw no reason to lie. As far as I was concerned, life was pretty good. I told her, "Wԋҽɳҽʋҽɾ I'ɱ ʂαԃ, ɱყ ɠɾαɳԃɱσƚԋҽɾ ɠιʋҽʂ ɱҽ ƙαɾαƚҽ ƈԋσρʂ". This led to a full-scale investigation, and I was removed from the house for three days until they finally decided to ask how I got the bruises. News of this silly little story quickly spread around the school and I earned my first nickname: Pork chop. To this day, I hate pork chops.

𝐼'𝓂 𝓃𝑜𝓉 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝑜𝓃𝓁𝓎 𝓀𝒾𝒹 𝓌𝒽𝑜 𝑔𝓇𝑒𝓌 𝓊𝓅 𝓉𝒽𝒾𝓈 𝓌𝒶𝓎.

We were surrounded by kids who used to say that rhyme about sticks and stones. As if broken bones hurt more than the names we got called, and we got called them all. So we grew up believing no one would fall in love with us, that we'd be lonely forever, that we'd never meet someone who made us feel like the sun was something they built for us in their toolshed. Broken heartstrings bled the blues as we tried to empty ourselves so we would feel nothing. Don't tell me that hurts less than a broken bone. That an ingrown life is something surgeons can cut away, that there's no way to metastasize. It does.

She was eight-years-old. It was our first day of grade three when she got called 'ugly'. We both got moved to the back of class so we would stop getting bombarded by spitballs. The school halls were a battleground and we found ourselves outnumbered day after wretched day. We used to stay inside for recess because outside was worse. Outside, we'd have to rehearse running away or learn to sit still like statues giving no clues that we were there, In grade five, they taped a sign to her desk that read 'ɮɛաǟʀɛ օʄ ɖօɢ'.

To this day, despite a loving husband, she doesn't think she's beautiful because of a birthmark that takes up a little less than half her face. Kids used to say, "Sԋҽ ʅσσƙʂ ʅιƙҽ α ɯɾσɳɠ αɳʂɯҽɾ ƚԋαƚ ʂσɱҽσɳҽ ƚɾιҽԃ ƚσ ҽɾαʂҽ Ⴆυƚ ƈσυʅԃɳ'ƚ ϙυιƚҽ ɠҽƚ ƚԋҽ ʝσႦ ԃσɳҽ". And they'll never understand that she's raising two kids whose definition of beauty begins with the word 'ʍօʍ'. They see her heart before they see her skin because she's only ever always been amazing!

He...

...was a broken branch crafted onto a different family tree. Adopted not because his parents opted for a different destiny. He was three when he became a mixed drink of one part left alone and two parts tragedy. He started therapy in eighth grade and had a personality made up of tests and pills. He lived like the uphills were mountains and the downhills were cliffs, four-fifths suicidal, and a tidal wave of anti-depressants, and an adolescence for being called 'Popper'. One part because of the pills, and ninety-nine parts because of the cruelty. He tried to kill himself in grade ten when a kid who could still go home to mom and dad had the audacity to tell him, "ɢᴇᴛ ᴏᴠᴇʀ ɪᴛ" as if depression is something that can be remedied by any of the contents found in a first aid kit.

To this day, he is a stick of TNT lit from both ends. He could describe to you in detail the way the sky bends in the moments before it's about to fall. Despite an army of friends who all call him an inspiration, he remains a conversation piece between people who can't understand sometimes being drug-free has less to do with addiction and more to do with 𝓈𝒶𝓃𝒾𝓉𝓎.

𝕎𝕖 𝕨𝕖𝕣𝕖𝕟'𝕥 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕠𝕟𝕝𝕪 𝕜𝕚𝕕𝕤 𝕨𝕙𝕠 𝕘𝕣𝕖𝕨 𝕦𝕡 𝕥𝕙𝕚𝕤 𝕨𝕒𝕪.

To this day, kids are still being called names. The classics were "hey stupid!", "hey spaz!". It seems like each school has an arsenal of names getting updated every year. If a kid breaks into a school and no one around chooses to hear, do they make a sound? Are they just background noise of a soundtrack stuck on repeat when people say things like, "Kids can be cruel"?

Every school was a big top circus tent, and the pecking order went from acrobats to lion tamers, from clowns to carnies. All of these were miles ahead of who we were--we were freaks: lobster-clawed boys and bearded ladies. Oddities juggling depression and loneliness and playing solitaire and spin the bottle while trying to kiss the wounded parts of ourselves and heal.

At night, while the others slept, we kept walking the tightrope. It was practice, and, yeah, some of us fell. I wanna tell you that all of this is just debris leftover from when we decided to smash the things we thought we used to be. And if you can't see anything beautiful about yourself, get a better mirror. Look a little closer. Stare a little longer because there's something inside you that made you keep trying despite everyone who told you to quit. You built a cast around your broken heart and signed it yourself. You signed it "THEY WERE WRONG" because maybe you didn't belong to a group or clique. Maybe they decided to pick you last for basketball or everything. Maybe you used to bring bruises and broken teeth to show and tell but never told because how can you hold your ground if everyone wants to bury you beneath it? You have to believe that they were wrong! They have to be wrong. Why else would we be here?

We grew up learning to cheer on the underdog because we see ourselves in them. We stem from a root planted in belief that we are not what we were called. We are not abandoned cars stalled out and sitting on empty on a highway, and if in some way we are, don't worry. We only got out to walk and get gas. We are graduating members from the class of We Made It. Not the voices crying out "Names will never hurt me". Of course they did, but our lives will only ever always continue to be a balancing act that has less to do with pain and more to do with beauty.

//word count: 1173 words