Be Kind (Even to Weirdos)

I know this is super hard to believe, but when I was a kid, I was a pretty big weirdo. The second-to-last kid picked for gym sports teams, next to the one who crow-squawked at others while chasing them around the playground (this kid was menacing). I had that going for me–no animal noises. Always a plus. But everyone remembers not fitting in-even if it’s not how others remember you, because they too, were off in their own self-made school hell of their choosing. It’s why, when we bought one of those school rocks that raises money, I got ours engraved with BE KIND.

Weirdo is a fine term to use, considering I once brought my mom’s coat collar (fur) to school and wrapped around my arm to pretend it was a cat. People would come by to pet it…I would have to say it was really shy and run away. I quickly came to my senses– this was not a lie I would be able to pull off. It was first grade or so, sure. But who does that? Anyway, by the end of the day, my “cat” was discarded at the back of my locker, I was shamed by stupidity, rapidly hurling towards year after year of idiotic moments. 

Once, I scaled a playground pole into the brackets that held the old–school basketball hoop (the kind with metal chains and orange, painted-on lines on plywood). Back then they built them with a little cage behind the backing, perfect for pigeons during off-season, and of course, an excellent place to hide budding weirdos. I sat there, surveying kids, taking in the scene. A monitor came over to tell me to come down; she stayed there the whole recess as I pretended not to hear her. I remember this clearly, because I envisioned the kids as ants, going about their day. What do ants do all day? They play soccer. They lead each other around blindfolded and shove each other into bushes. They see how high they can get a swing going- and how far it will throw them when they jump. Fascinating.It felt wonderful to completely ignore the monitor and carry on with my scientific studies. She told the teacher, who had a soft spot for me (she was a fellow weirdo) Instead of detention she gave me some of the extra attention I desperately needed. The next year came and I panicked; I asked to stay in the third grade again, with my teacher ally, rather than move ahead. It was not to be.

How about the sixth-grade smear campaign? Two girls not of my social stature (which was nothing) didn’t like that I had made friends with the boy they liked, the one I played soccer with. By this time I was a full-fledged weirdo; I wore an engineer’s cap all the time, with all my hair tucked into it, so I could pretend to be a boy (there was no fooling me–I could see sexism a mile away. Even at ten I knew who held most of the power in the world). But I digress. These gals took a blurry polaroid of one of them in an engineer hat flipping the bird. Then they put it in his desk… and waited. My buddy turned around after recess and showed it to me, fairly pissed off. The teacher came by and took it, then shooed me into the hall. We had a chat, which was mostly me snotting my way through an “I didn’t doooo it.”

The next day one of their friends snitched; they got in the shit; my friend forgave me. But there was no popularity gain, just a sad reminder that when you fuck with weirdos and get caught, the weird kid is still…weird. Sigh.

What did I learn? I learned I didn’t fit in, DUH.

Later in life, I found other fringe elements; lo and behold other people thought WE were cool. How odd, that it should end up like that. By that time, I was beyond caring. I really only wanted friends who were nice; by then, I didn’t want to fit in.  

And the kids who fell from grace, they had it worst, because after they’d shat on everyone and lost their circle themselves, well, then what? I would love to say that I had empathy for them, but, let’s say we all have to try, every day, to work at being a good person. Schadenfreude can be hard to resist (a German word for karmic payback right up the backside).

And life goes on, and you have your own kids. My kids did not inherit the weirdo gene, despite both me and my husband providing their DNA. Thankfully neither brought imaginary animals to school (or pretended to be them). But the sting of rejection still rings true, no matter what circle you find yourself on the outside of, what team cut you, what birthday party you didn’t get the invite to. I try not to project the hurt of those early weirdo years: I struggle with it. My first instinct as a mom is to kick the shit out of any kid that hurts my own. 

Then I have a little talk with myself. I put on my thinking engineers cap and take deep breaths. I think to myself, Be Kind. Even to bullies. Be Kind.

To this day, I’m glad it all happened. I’m glad I was an outsider, I’m glad I was forced to find my own path. All that jazz about building character? It’s true. You have to wade through the shit to get to the other side. How else will you know what to avoid stepping in, if you never have? 

Everyone finds their place, and for some, it just takes longer. My good buddy and I laugh about being writers: writers are notorious weirdos. We joke when we’re going to festivals and book launches and workshops. “It will be so fun. Everyone there will be so NORMAL!” we say, and then we laugh, a braying HA HA HA that announces we are okay with them being anything but.