"GOD, you are right. He is a freak with that ear all stuck against his head like that," said one of the girls, as I walked past them at Landon Junior-Senior High School in Jacksonville.
Being only my second day at a new school, I continued walking and tried to pretend that I had not heard what she had said.
"HEY, YOU HEARD ME YOU FREAK," yelled the same girl.
I just continued walking, as all five girls began giggling with one another.
I had hoped that when I began junior high school the jokes about my ear would stop. I had hoped the kids would be a little more grown up and a little more kind and considerate.
Walking as fast as I could, I turned into the boy's bathroom and collapsed against the wall. It took everything I could do to hold back my tears. All at once, my chest began to hurt and I could hardly catch my breath. On my hands and knees, I climbed into the stall and closed the door. Slowly, I made my way over to the toilet, sat down, and leaned my face against the cool, tiled wall.
Several students came into the bathroom, washed their hands, and then left. I sat quietly in the stall until I heard the bell ring. I took about ten feet of toilet paper, wadded it up, and tucked it into my over-shirt pocket.
When the hallway became silent, I opened the stall door and walked over to the sink and began washing my face. As I looked in the mirror, I stood there wondering if I really looked like a freak. I turned my head to the left so that my ear was not visible in my reflection. A far as I was concerned I looked just as normal as everyone else. For the life of me I could not understand why the other kids wanted to be cruel, and for no reason at all.
For years, the children at Spring Park Elementary School had treated us kids from the orphanage as if we were lepers. The fact that we wore torn, oversized clothing was not our fault. I could somewhat understand why they were making fun of us because of our clothing but why would kids make fun of someone's physical appearance? It had been six long, terrible years of being mocked and teased. Now I faced another six years of the same treatment. I stood there staring at myself in the mirror, wondering how much longer I could bare it. Several of the kids from the orphanage had already tried to commit suicide because of the never-ending teasing, and I knew in my heart that I was not far behind.
Already late for class and probably in trouble with the Dean Of Boys, not to mention the orphanage matron; I stood wondering if I should leave the school grounds or continue on to my classroom.
Walking slowly up and down the hallway, I decided to go to my next class. As I walked in, the teacher stopped speaking to the class and pointed to a seat near the rear of the room. When I turned around I saw the girl who had made fun of me-sitting in the seat next to mine. I walked down the aisle and her eyes never left mine. All at once, she sneered and then stuck out her tongue.
My heart began to race and I felt that heaviness in my chest. Trying to hold my composure I sat down and looked straight ahead. I sat there for ten minutes afraid to move my head in any direction.
"Psssss," I heard, coming from my left. As I slowly turned to look at the girl, she held up a piece of notebook paper. Drawn on the page was a picture of a large hand, the middle finger sticking straight up. I turned my head forward and sat there staring at the teacher. Every once in a while she would shake the paper but I would not look in her direction.
"Creep," I would hear her say, in a low tone. I just sat there trying not to pay her any attention. Finally the noises stopped and she sat there not making any sounds, whatsoever.
As I continued to look straight ahead, I could hear her constantly fidgeting around. Slowly, I turned my head toward her and saw that she was wiping blood off the calf of her leg. When she looked in my direction there was a look of horror on her face. I sat there for several seconds before I realized what was happening. I took out a piece of notebook paper and I wrote "It's my turn now," and I held it so that she could see what I had written.
Her head tilted, somewhat to the side and she silently motioned with her lips, "Please don't. Please."
I folded the piece of paper and stuck it back into my notebook. Several minutes later the bell rang and the students began filing out of the classroom. She sat at her desk waiting for everyone to leave the room. When I stood up she looked horrified. I unbuttoned and removed my heavy wool, worn-out, torn, red over-shirt and I laid it on her desktop.
"You might need this to wrap around you. There is toilet paper in the pocket," I told her.
I walked down the aisle and through the door. I closed it behind me and stood there making sure no one would come in until she had a chance to get herself together. Several minutes later she emerged, with my over-shirt wrapped around her waist. She said not a word, as she headed down the long hallway to the girl's bathroom. I picked up my books and continued on to my next class.
That afternoon when I returned to the orphanage, Mother Winters, the head matron, slapped me across the face for leaving my over-shirt at school. I was made to stand in the corner of the dining room with no supper as the other children ate their meal. Mr. Ball, our house parent, made me rake the entire five-acre dormitory yards, both Saturday and Sunday.
When I returned to school on Monday I walked into the Science room and saw the girl was sitting at her desk. On the back of my seat was a blue over-shirt.
"Where's my red shirt?" I asked her.
"I had to throw it away. My mom bought you a new shirt," she said.
"But I have to have that red shirt, I just have to have it," I told her.
She just turned her head and ignored me for the remainder of the class.
On my way home to the orphanage I threw the new over-coat out of the school bus window.
I suppose it's hard for anyone to understand that we kids were not allowed to make any decisions or mistakes of any kind. The fact that the red over-shirt had been replaced with a new blue one did not make any difference to our caretakers, whatsoever. I had already been punished for leaving the red shirt at school. If I brought the blue shirt back to the orphanage I would have been beaten, slapped or kicked once again.
A "bastard kid" learns at a very early age to let the dead dog lie.
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Comments: 14
ALSOI am very glad that life is kind to you after all. Good people like yourself, make all the difference in our world today. Thanks for posting!
Renda is right about mean kids growing to be mean adults.
I was ridiculed and made fun of all my childhood for looking different. I grew up in WV, and at that time, many people were prejudice. I was picked on by kids and adults. Even my teachers were mean to me for being of a different race. I was called names like "ugly gook", "that weird looking girl", and many many more that are nastier. It was something I did not understand as a young girl, but as I got older, I learned why I was being treated so bad.
We were also poor, as my mother had to raise us all by herself, since my father decided he liked being without responsibility. He never took care of our family when he was around. He was selfish, and my mom was not. She gave and did everything for me and my siblings. Since we were poor, the kids had even more to make fun of us. I didn't care much about that though, because when I got home with my mom, she made us all feel like we were special. She spent time with me and my siblings playing games and telling us creative stories to entertain us. I miss those times most of all. So, because of her love, I learned how important family is, and to be with the people who are positive and caring are the most valuable gift.
Now that I am grown, I go back to the state to visit my brother and his family. I run into some of the people that ridiculed me when I was a kid. But now, they are oddly nice to me. I pay them no mind. I don't care to include them in my life. They are still materialistic and rude.
I have been around a lot of people too that think that money and material things are what life is about. They are boring to me, and I really don't care to spend my time with them. I learned that they always talk behind each other's back, and are not very good people. Most of them claim to be Christians, but as soon as they are out of the church doors, are nasty selfish human beings.
"A "bastard kid" learns at a very early age to let the dead dog lie."
boy do I wish I'd leanred THAT one early enough.
What I do not understand is how children become so cruel. They're not born that way. I raised my son to accept everyone and to stick up for those who the underdog. Many were the times that got him into trouble. But he was respected and loved by young and old alike.
Kids like that had to have had parents who taught them to treat people badly.