When I was a kid, I thought pork chops and karate chops were the
same thing. I thought they were both pork chops and 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 right side of my body. I
didn’t want to tell my grandmother about it because I was
afraid I’d get in trouble for playing somewhere that I
shouldn’t have been. A few days later the 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 kinds 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 “Whenever I’m sad my
grandmother gives me karate chops.” 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 through 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;
surrounded by people 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
ever fall in love with us, that we’d be lonely forever,
that we’d never meet someone to make us feel like the sun
was something they built for us in their tool shed. So broken
heart strings 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 for it to metastasize; it
does.
She was eight years old our first day of grade three when
she got called ugly. We both got moved to the back of the class
so we would stop get bombarded by spit balls. But the school
halls were a battleground where 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 stay still like statues giving no clues that we
were there. In grade five, they taped a sign to her desk that
read beware of dog. 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 of her face. Kids used to
say she looks like a wrong answer that someone tried to erase but
couldn’t quite get the job done and they’ll never
understand that she’s raising two kids whose definition of
beauty begins with the word mom because they see her heart before
they see her skin, that she’s only ever always been
amazing.
He was a broken branch grafted onto a different family
tree. Adopted, but 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. Started therapy in eighth
grade. Had a personality made up of tests and pills. Lived like
the uphills were mountains and the downhills were cliffs. Four
fifths suicidal, a tidal wave of anti depressants, and an
adolescence of 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 still had his mom and dad
had the audacity to tell him “get over it” 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 on
TNT lit from both ends. Could describe to you in detail the way
the sky bends in the moments before it’s about to fall. And
despite an army of friends who all call him an inspiration, he
remains a conversation piece between people who can’t
understand sometimes becoming 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". Seems like each school has an
arsenal of names getting updated every year. And if a kid breaks
in a school and no one around chooses to hear do they make a
sound? Are they just the 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 claw boys and
bearded ladies; oddities juggling depression and loneliness,
playing solitaire, spin the bottle, trying to kiss the wounded
parts of ourselves and heal. But at night, while the others
slept, we kept walking the tightrope. It was practice and yeah
some of us fell. But I want to tell them that all of
this stuff is just debris leftover. When we finally decide
to smash all 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 a click. 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 around you wants to bury you
beneath it? You have to believe that they were wrong they have to
be wrong. Why else would we still be here? We grew up learning to
cheer on the underdog because we see ourselves in them. We stem
from a root planted in the belief that we are not what we were
called. We are not abandoned cars stalled out and sitting 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 back off. We made it. Not the faded echoes of
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.
-Shane Koyczan
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