Reality

My first dose of reality came in 5th grade. Mr. Ross wanted nothing more than to be one of the cool teachers. He made jokes in class. He allowed the kids to cut up. In the name of being one of the popular teachers, he let the popular kids fall neatly into their mean girl and tough boy roles without any hint that they might be going about things the wrong way. That included their treatment of me.

I'd started my transition from cute kid to the awkward pre-adolescent stage. I needed braces. I'd become a little pudgy. Let's not forget that pesky little limp that came with the stunted growth in my right leg. Oh, and that leg brace.

I arrived at school each day with all of the necessities provided by a family who cared about my well-being. An umbrella in case it rained. A new lunchbox. A backpack filled with shiny new school supplies each year, provided by Mom-mom. Mom-mom was my grandmother, and I loved her more than life itself. She spoiled me. She loved me. She defended me. Each and every possession that she gave me was precious.

I tried to stay obscure in class. I stayed quiet and did my work. In all of my conspicuousness, I wanted to blend with the other students.

Between my shyness and my awareness that I needed to lay low, I became a perfect target for the bullies. The boys' misguided attempts at masculinity involved whatever means were at their disposal to impress the future cheerleaders. One of their means included touting their control over me.

One day, they stole my umbrella. I'll never forget how incensed my mother became when I walked in the door from the bus stop soaking wet. I'm certain she called the principal to complain, but I don't know what, if any, corrective actions were taken toward the boys. Whatever they were, they refused to be tamed.

The worst day, they took my ruler. I remember the pink plastic with the stencils in the center. When I looked at it, I was reminded of Mom-mom. She bought it for me that year on our annual school supply shopping trip. Using it brought about reminders of how much she loved me.

At the end of that day, Mr. Ross left the room when another teacher summoned him. No sooner was he gone than a pack of boys surrounded me. One of them snatched the ruler from it's resting place at the front of my desk. Mortified, I watched as this heathen snapped my ruler into a dozen pieces while his neanderthal buddies laughed. The girls who idolized them grinned from their seats. The others who sympathized with me -- though not enough to rebuke the behavior -- pretended not to see. When the ruler had been mutilated, they threw the pieces to the ground under my desk and strutted away. The tears began spilling from my cheeks. I didn't want anyone to know how they had gotten to me, so I dropped to the floor and began picking up the pieces. My heart broke that Mom-mom's ruler had been vandalized.

As kids will do, someone must have told Mr. Ross that I was crying. I remember seeing his large feet and the bottoms of his khaki pants appear beside my desk. I pretended I didn't see him. I refused to look up. In a reflection of his misshapen priorities, he said nothing and walked away. Once he disappeared, I wiped the tears and pulled myself off the floor, placing the shards of plastic inside my desk.

Up to that point, I'd held my head as high as I could. My academics excelled. I worked far above my grade level in class. Often, teachers provided me with extra assignments to keep me busy. Socially, I survived with a few friends who also liked staying incognito. Mom led a Girl Scout troop. Several classmates belonged to it. I'd shown the superiority that came with having a mom who was the leader.

After that day, none of it mattered. I was well on my way to being dominated by childhood bullies. Middle School lay just around the corner. Things looked dismal to me.

Lies

The truth is never popular. If you don't believe me, try living life with one leg. Try picking yourself up every day and telling yourself that you will survive the hours. Try pretending that you're just like the others. Try pretending that no one cares.

I dare you.

I don't mean you lucky stars who were born normal and healthy and lived most of your youth as a vibrant and beautiful human being but then later became maimed. I don't even mean those of you who may have been average in the face or a little bit pudgy. Those things are forgivable... as long as you look normal.

Actually, I was born as normal as the next girl. Cute little blond head of hair that later turned brunette. A real charmer. My parents struggled, though. My mother worked every day as a bank teller while my father finished his engineering degree. Harrowed and weary, they trudged home every day, trying their best to survive the meager beginnings of a couple who became parents too soon. However, they cared for me well. They loved me. In my tiny world, all was lovely.

Didn't last long though. A few months after my second birthday, a couple of neighborhood pre-teens stopped by the apartment. They asked if I could come out to play. They'd keep a keen eye on me, they promised. My mother, relieved by the thought of being able to cook dinner without having to keep tabs on a toddler, agreed. The screeching tires a few minutes later drew her attention to the street outside the kitchen window. Horrified, she saw my lifeless body lying in the road. I'd been hit by a car. The kid behind the wheel, who'd barely had his license a minute, allowed himself to be distracted long enough to not notice me darting into the road. (Later, the police discovered that the pre-teens had lost interest in me. I'd wandered off chasing after a black and white neighborhood cat named Oreo.)

Pleading to Jesus to save her baby, she went tearing out the door. They rushed me to the hospital and saved my life. There had been a head injury. That impact caused me to regress in my development. I had to learn to crawl again when I got home. That's when they noticed my right leg dragging behind me. More tests revealed some sciatic nerve damage that caused partial paralysis to my right leg. I made it through childhood and early adolescence with a leg brace, but the damage caused my leg to develop abnormally. The muscles in my lower leg failed to properly form, and my foot dropped. Sensitive skin made me susceptible to pressure wounds from the brace.

For the early years of my childhood, all that mattered was my family. My self-esteem stayed relatively intact through the praises proffered by my family and other adults in my life.

"You're such a brave girl!"

"An inspiration!"

"You're little Miss Sunshine! Would you look at that smile?"

Relatives and friends and even my father's boss doted on me, even more so when I spent weeks in the hospital or in spika casts. It made me okay with it all -- even the stares and rude questions from strangers.

The head injury didn't cause any cognitive damage, thank goodness. At least I guess it didn't. Maybe I'd be a Pulitzer-prize winning member of MENSA if the "accident" never happened. Maybe I wouldn't. Who knows? Nobody complained, though, because I always stayed at the top of my class in all of my subjects.

Then I began to notice my peers.