Round Peg, Square Hole

A life of failing to fit in, and finally saying, "Fuck it."

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Only cats should scratch (Childhood, Part 8)

My parents raised a certified nerd. It’s not like they could help it with my mom being a chemical engineer and my dad being a metallurgist and teacher. The House of Science, a book that led you through different rooms of a house, each one a different science discipline, became my favorite book. I brought it with me everywhere and constantly re-answered the questions at the end of each “room,” desperately hoping one day to get them all right. For Christmas one year I got a chemistry set, a microscope another year. Yup. Nerd.

Fifth grade stands out in my mind for quite a few reasons. First, I my teacher me caught flipping her off and the look on her face is burned into my retinas. Second, my big mouth got in my trouble and the story I wrote about it for my tenth-grade school district writing assignment because the example story for the writing assignment the following year (for the ENTIRE school district, like four high schools). Third, and most importantly, my teacher, Mrs. March loved science and shared that love with us.

When we learned about the human body Mrs. March brought in all the innards of a pig to give the opportunity to see firsthand what we were learning. We cut open the stomach to view the pig’s last meal. Some idiot stabbed the small intestine with his finger and the whole classroom smelled like poo. Mrs. March also brought in extra hearts, cut them open, and passed them around, showing us what the chambers of the heart and valves looked like. For once class didn’t bore me. But I had other problems.

My dad temper flared up like a flamethrower from time to time. Most of the time it resulted in some verbal abuse. Other times, a little physical abuse (he never hit me or my mom, just pushed us around). Kids are like sponges. They soak up whatever they’re placed in. I soaked up my dad’s rage, and even some of his violence.

At school this translated into me getting a little violent with the other kids. I kept my nails long because I wanted to be a cat, and I used these long nails to scratch the shit out of anyone who pissed me off. Years later a guy showed me scars on his arm from when I scratched him in fifth grade. All of this happened on the playground, usually out of sight of my teacher and her aid.

Each week our class voted on someone to be somebody, though I can’t exactly remember what. To me it seemed like a popularity contest because the popular kids typically won. To be fair, nobody could be selected twice. Students nominated each other, and many time I received a nomination but didn’t win. This caught Mrs. March’s attention.

At a parent-teacher night Mrs. March took my parents and me aside to express her concern. She said she couldn’t understand why my peers never selected me. In class I helped other students out with their work, joked around and seemed to get along well. She started watching me on the playground. She saw me lash out at my classmates. After that conversation I learned to keep my claws to myself.

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"Care about what other people think and you will always be their prisoner."

Lao Tzu

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(Childhood, Part 7)

Shingletown wasn’t, and probably still isn’t, a very ethnically diverse town. My mom is Filipino and dark brown. Supposedly the first time she walked into the cafe my parents eventually bought, everyone stopped what they were doing and stared at her. Growing up, the only other non-folks in our town of 10,000 people were the Hispanic lady and her two kids, a retired African-American veteran and a Japanese family. Nobody treated anyone differently, so I barely noticed it. That is until fourth grade.

Most folks in Shingletown were either retired and had money, or were blue collar and just making ends meet. Most of the kids I grew up with were from blue collar families, and we were all a little trashy, wearing hand-me-downs or clothes from the thrift store, and rough around the edges. One chick in particular was a bit trashier than the rest of us. None of that really mattered as much as they way she treated other people. Including me. We’ll call her Callie.

When I have bangs I tend to look more Asian, and I had bangs in fourth grade. Callie decided to call me Chinese and make fun of me for it. Any little thing I did wrong or that wasn’t what everyone else was doing Callie would say, “It’s because she’s Chinese!” Numerous time I tried to patiently explain to her that I was not Chinese, I was Filipino. If she was going to make fun of me she could at least get my ethnicity right. It was no use. Suddenly I became aware of the fact that I wasn’t like everyone else, in yet another way. 

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Boredom Leads to Trouble (Childhood, Part 6)

Have I mentioned that I get bored easily? In case I haven’t... I get bored easily. School was no exception. Sitting in class for hours on end with the teacher explaining the lesson for the day did nothing to keep my interest. I stared glassy-eyed at the board, daydreaming and fantasizing about anything and everything. More often than not, living in my gourd got boring as well. The one-sided conversations left much to be desired, so I started talking to the poor kid next to me, whoever it happened to be.

The teacher heard me talking, looked at me with steely eyes, and sternly told me not to talk. For a few minutes my conversation retreated back into my head before spilling out of my mouth again. Usually after my third warning the teacher sent me outside to keep me from disrupting the class. I’m sure she meant this to be punishment. Ha!

Outside I could move more freely instead of being restricted to my hard, plastic chair where I felt confined to an invisible cage. Although the conversation remained one-sided, the thoughts turned into audible words as I mumbled to myself without fear of retribution. Instead of the limited stimulus of the classroom I had the school grounds to keep me occupied. I gazed upon the trees towering over the basketball court as their branches lazily swayed in the warm breeze. I looked down on the soccer field and marveled at how green the grass was.

I considered the time other classes were on recess as prime exile time. While on recess myself, being too busy playing, I spent little time observing those around me. But sitting outside my classroom all alone allowed me to people watch. Some kids played basketball while others stood at the edge of the court. A few of the bystanders had a longing look on their face, almost desperate to participate in a game, but they also had a knowing look that their chances were slim to none. Kids already gathered in little cliques, whispering and giggling amongst themselves while their eyes darted over to the other group of kids they were likely making fun of.

If I, too, were on recess and merely stood back to survey my surroundings, that group of kids would be talking about me. As a mere derelict hidden in the shadows in front of my classroom I could take in my surroundings without reservations. Eventually my teacher would invite me back in the classroom, likely believing she saved me from a harsh loneliness of being separated from my peers.

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I swear I’ll be posting more than quotes at some point in the near future. In a bit of a funk and just don’t feel like writing. I’m sure I’ll snap out of it sooner than later.

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If you end up with a boring miserable life because you listened to your mom, your dad, your teacher, your priest, or some guy on television telling you how to do your shit, then you deserve it.

Frank Zappa

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Watch carefully the magic that occurs when you give a person just enough comfort to be themselves.

Atticus

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My Droopy Eye (Childhood - Part 5)

Changing schools terrified me even though less kids attended Black Butte Elementary School in Shingletown than Spencer V. Williams in Downey, with only two classes of about 30 students per grade. Starting at a new school after the beginning of the school year made it hard. Given the remote location of our cabin, few neighbors existed within walking or biking distance. Our accessible neighbors consisted of older folks with no youngin’s. I had yet to meet another kid.

I can’t recall if my mom dropped me off or if I took the bus to school. I imagine Mom dropped me off because she typically did on the first day of school, giving me no opportunity to break the ice on the way to school whilst riding the bus. I remember sitting on the rough carpet of my new classroom, looking up at the green chalkboard and around at all the strange faces. I found it strange to sit on floor because we sat at desks as Spencer V. Williams.

At lunch, we lined up in alphabetical order to march to the cafeteria. With the last name “Biagetti” I knew I must be near the front of the line but lining up still forced me to interact with my peers to determine my exact spot. In line I met the kid who became my best friend for over a decade, Chrissy Bias. She immediately started talking to me, and I stared at her freckles while she talked. Instantly I liked her and felt relieved to finally know someone. We bantered back and forth over lunch and in line while we waited to march back to the classroom.

With a partner in crime I managed to socialize a bit with the other kids at recess. On a chilly, overcast, autumn day, standing somewhere on the playground with kids running around and swinging on swings, bundled in my layers, a snarky kid came up to me brought up my droopy left eye.

           “Why don’t you open your eye all the way?” the illustrious kid asked.

           “Because I can’t.” I timidly replied, not wanting to make eye contact, knowing a downturned gaze caused my right eyelid to lower as much as the left one did all on its own.

           “Why not? Just open it!” directed the prodigy child.

           “I can’t!” I screamed back as I tried with all my might to will my eye to open completely.

During our conversation other kids gathered around and stared at my deformity. I desperately attempted to explain the cause of my droopy eye with the hopes of dropping the subject. Another upstanding kid piped up, “Yes you can. You just don’t want to because you’re trying to get attention.”

           “Yeah. The new kid just wants attention!” yelled another esteemed peer.

I gave up. They made up their minds about me. Just as I physically lacked the capability to open my left eye all the way, they mentally lacked the capability to grasp someone having a medically viable explanation for not being able to open their eye all the way. To make one thing clear, it’s not as though my left eyelid drooped all the time. My deficiency mostly presented itself when I smiled or felt tired. Still, for days, maybe even weeks, kids commented on it, either to face or behind my back.

My woolly mammoth latched on to the comments and teasing and convinced me I needed to do something about it. Each night, after my mom turned off the light, I struggled in the dark to activate the muscles needed to lift my left eyelid. Maybe a genuine lack of effort did explain my inability to open my eye. Maybe if I tried hard enough and practiced my eyelid would pop open like everyone else’s. As you can imagine, my feeble attempts at rehab failed. The comments about my eye eventually faded away, either because of lack of interest or my astute peers recognized it nearly impossible for me to keep up the droopy eye act for weeks and months. But that didn’t stop me and my woolly mammoth from thinking about it daily.

If you have or had a droopy eye, let me know. There’s strength in numbers!

*** In the near future...spending almost as much time in my third grade classroom as I did sitting outside of it as punishment ***

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Moving Home (Childhood - Part 4)

I spent the first seven years of my life in Downey, California, a suburb next to the great city of Los Angeles. Most days I gazed up to the sky I saw white instead of blue because of the smog. Concrete and asphalt covered most surfaces. Dry lawns, parched due to water restrictions, did little to break up the urban jungle. However, my parents owned a log cabin in the mountains of Northern California. Shingletown, to be exact.

During my winter and summer breaks from school the three of us loaded into mom’s canyon red Ford Bronco II and drove 10 to 12 hours, mostly take the long and lonely I-5, to our home away from home. The smell of manure from the concentrated animal feeding operations, earthy, unpleasant, and pungent, pierced our noses for portions of the trip. Out in the distance to the east the mountains looked like hills, piles of earth carefully placed in a line, and they grew into the mountains they were as we left the interstate for the highway heading east. Seemingly out of nowhere the mountains filled our view, and shortly afterwards they practically vanished because we travelled among them, and only one peak, Mount Lassen, stood out on the horizon.

Log homes pose as log cabins with their silly log exterior, a more aesthetically pleasing alternative to vinyl siding I suppose. Not our cabin! Perfectly round logs stacked upon each other, forming the sturdy perimeter of the cabin. On the outside dark, weatherproofing stain protected the logs from the elements, and inside a glossy clear coat accentuated the intricate grain of the wood. The cabin sat on five wooded acres, with undeveloped five-acre plots on either side of us and Sierra Pacific logging property behind us. Billions of stars burned holes in the black velvet sky. On a moonless night you could see the Milky Way arch through space.

Each time we made our way to Shingletown I asked my folks, “Are moving there for good this time?” Moving to the mountains, to our cabin, to the woods, is all I wanted out of life as a kid. Toys served no purpose out there. In the summer I played with rocks and sticks and dirt, running through the forest barefoot, looking for bugs and critters. In the winter I made snowmen and snow angels and enjoyed the serene beauty of the sparkling white snow-capped pine and fir trees.

I started second grade in Downey, and two short months after the school year started my mom and I packed up and finally moved to Shingletown. We finally moved home. My dad stayed behind, working, and waiting for the house to sell. Although I missed my dad something fierce, moving to Shingletown made being apart worthwhile. That is, until I picked second grade back up at a different school.

*** You’re probably thinking, “Uh, you didn’t even talk about your new school and the bullying that took place.” Keen observation. It’s coming next! ***

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The first step to accepting yourself is to stop comparing yourself to others.

Joe Duncan

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One of These Things Is Not Like the Other (Childhood - Part 3)

As I humbly mentioned before, I am fairly intelligent. Every single night at I snuggled up with a parent or my sweet grandma while they read me a bedtime story. Before learning how to read, I memorized all my Golden books and my favorite Winnie the Pooh book because of hearing them read to me so many times. By age four I learned how to read and devoured as many books as my little mind could handle.

At preschool all us kids gathered in the group room before snack time or lunch, sat cross-legged on the floor and stared up at a teacher while he or she read us a story. Meanwhile the other teachers prepared the food and set it out. The teacher read the lines on the pages before turning the book around to show the pictures. Our faces lit up the instant even a smidge of a picture entered our line of sight.

One day a teacher called in sick and they were short staffed. This is where my memory is a wee bit fuzzy. I can’t remember if I volunteered or I was volun-told, but I ended up at the front of the group room reading to my peers. Not only did I memorize all my books, many of which our story time selection included, but I also memorized the story time books not in my possession because of hearing them so many times. Instead of reading and then turning the book around for the kids to see, I kept the book open, pictures facing the room, while I recited the words on the page. Not once did I need to turn the book to read any of the lines as I looked upon all the little faces I once sat with.

In the midst of preparing food one of the teachers took note of my mad reading (reciting) skills and passed this nugget onto his or her fellow teachers. From then on teachers asked me to read at story time on a regular basis. They claimed the other kids found it more enjoyable to gaze upon the pictures throughout the whole story rather than merely catching glimpses of the pictures when the teachers turned the book around. How wonderful for all the other kids! Instant gratification replaced their overwhelming anticipation of the pictures to come. But what about me? Did my teachers not consider how ostracized I felt reading to my peers instead of being read to like every other kid? Obviously not.

I’d like to thank Amazon for the image of my favorite Winnie the Pooh book, and Matthew Sherry for graciously reading out loud a digital copy of this wonderful book on YouTube and providing the means for me to get a screenshot of a couple of the pages.

*** Coming soon - Changing schools and the subsequent bullying that scarred my self image for years ***

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F*** Valentine’s Day - A Rant

Valentine’s Day is a sham. Supposedly it’s a day for two people to express their love for each other… through a card written by someone else (thousands of people will receive the exact same card) chocolate, flowers that wilt within a week, and an expensive meal. Yeah. I can feel the love. How did this silly tradition come about? Why do we feel compelled to follow through with it year after year?

A few years ago, a coworker agonized over where to take his girlfriend for dinner on Valentine’s Day. After calling all the best restaurants in town he managed to secure a reservation. Nothing says, “I love you,” more than getting a reservation at a fancy restaurant the same day every other person everywhere is doing the same thing. This is equally true for the rest of the Valentine’s traditions.

As you probably guess, I despise Valentine’s Day. I know I am special every day of the year, and I do not expect my significant other to wait until February 14th to celebrate it. Just as I prefer to celebrate the awesomeness of my significant other any day I damn well please. I challenge all the folks out there caught up in the V-Day madness to STOP and find new ways and new days to celebrate their loved ones and the love they feel for them.

What about all the single folks out there feeling bad about themselves because they don’t have anyone to spend Valentine’s Day with? Don’t feel bad! It’s just another day, like every other day. Be grateful you’re not expected to waste money simply to prove you care. Who wants to watch flowers that once flourished wither away on their countertop anyway? I say love yourself. You should be doing that everyday regardless.

Do you hate Valentine’s Day as much as I do? Let me know I’m not alone by replying below.

*** I swear Childhood - Part 3 is coming soon, just had to get this out of my system ***

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Screw You, Paper Star (Childhood - Part 2)

Like every other human, I eventually grew older. At three years old (I think…) my parents stopped taking me to Sally’s and started taking me to preschool instead. Not to be arrogant or toot my own horn, but I’m fairly intelligent. As a kid I constantly needed stimulation because my brain wanted to learn more and more and more, and I ran around like a crazy person hopped up on cocaine because…I was kid. These traits hindered my transition into preschool life.

In my preschool building’s previous life, it had been a house. The “living room” became a group room where a throng of children attempted to quietly sit still and listen to the teacher. Paper stars with each kid’s name hung on the wall in the group room. Every morning before the kids arrived the teachers turned each start backwards with the name facing the wall. Good little kids who slept through nap time got their stars turned around. Instead of the pressure of two kids at Sally’s house, I felt the pressure of every star on that wall, glaring at me, goading me to nap like every other star, er, kid.

At nap time the teachers pulled out cots and set up one for each kid. Most kids instantly conked out the instant their head hit the cot, dead to the world. A select few struggled to fall asleep, and the teachers rubbed their backs and stroked their hair, lulling them to sleep. I was one of those select few. My little brain raced with thoughts and ideas, unable to shut down. I tried to pretend to be asleep, tried to lie still and keep my eyes closed, but my body betrayed me. After nap time, more often than not, the names on every star faced out into the group room, except mine.

My woolly mammoth became devastated. In the group room my eyes fixated on my backwards star, even before nap time when every star faced backwards because I knew mine alone would stay that way. Growing up I loved cats (I still love cats). My favorite stuffed animal was the same size as me; my gigantic cat. One day I brought it to preschool with me. At nap time I hid underneath my gigantic cat, motionless. I managed to lie still because my cat concealed my eyes, allowing them to dart around unnoticed. Did I nap? No. Did my star get turned around? Yes.

If you hated nap time as well, reply below!

*** Up next - How my preschool teachers singled me out, this time not with stupid paper stars, and yet again made me feel different ***

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What is this woolly mammoth you speak of?

In case nobody felt like reading the Wait But Why post that explains the woolly mammoth, or didn’t notice the link, I shall give a brief synopsis. However, if you have time, I highly recommend reading his post.

Waaaaaaay back in the day, like caveman days, we lived in small groups that henceforth will be referred to as tribes. We lived in tribes because we needed to, or else we would die. It was that simple. If you fucked up and the tribe kicked you out, they basically handed you a death warrant. Because of this, you did not want to piss anyone off, be useless and unproductive, or be so weird nobody wanted you around. YOU LEARNED TO FIT IN. You adhered to the status quo out of self-preservation. Tim Urban, author of the mammoth post, calls the voice in your head, the one that steers you towards the status quo and tells you what other people think really does matter, your Social Survival Mammoth.

*** I know, you’re on the edge of your seat, eager to read how I struggled to fit in at preschool. Don’t worry. It’s coming soon...maybe even tomorrow... ***

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Playing with Creepy Dolls (Childhood - Part 1)

Babies don’t worry about fitting in, what is normal, or not normal. Babies worry about their next meal or diaper change. As a baby I’m sure I worried about the same things. The fact that infant Bell’s palsy caused the left half of my face to be a little droopy didn’t bother me one bit. I imagine I still cried, ate, shit, and slept the same as babies with a normal face. The thing about babies is they grow up and start to care about more than meals and diaper changes.

Until I was old enough to attend preschool, my parents turned me over to Sally down the street while they were at work. Aside from me, Sally also babysat another little girl and a little boy (maybe more?). One distinct memory stands out from this time in my life. All us kids sat in the living room, playing together, and Sally brought out dolls for us to play with. At home, I played with my GI Joes and killer triceratops that shot rockets. I stared at the dolls, unsure of what to do with them. One doll wore a velvet dress, and for some reason velvet freaked me out back then.

Animals, including humans, learn from observing others. I rigidly sat and watched at my peers, hoping to infer what on earth one does when presented with a doll. They each happily plucked up a doll and started brushing their hair with little brushes and moved the arms and legs in a sort of dancing motion. Perhaps my peers also found velvet disgusting because they left the doll with the velvet dress for me. I tentatively picked it up, stared at its creepy doll face, and began to brush its hair.

My young self never thought, “You don’t have to play with these dolls just because the other kids are playing with them.” My young self never asked Sally, “Do you have any GI Joes I could play with?” The woolly mammoth in my young brain told me I NEEDED to fit in. I NEEDED play with the creepy doll in the disgusting velvet dress. And so I did.

Anyone else have a similar experience, with or without creepy dolls? Reply below!

*** Stay tuned for the next installment... Struggling to fit in at preschool ***

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"If you are always trying to be normal you will never know how amazing you can be."

Maya Angelou