This is the sound of my soul
–Spandau Ballet/True
When I was little, I was a bossy child. I bossed my brother around. I bossed the neighborhood children around. I stated opinions with the perfect assurance of the eternally correct. I was sure I was the smartest kid in town. I didn’t care if I was pretty. I’m not sure I even knew such a thing applied to people other than my mother. I didn’t particularly care if anyone liked me as long as they did what I told them to.
I read any book I picked up anywhere I happened to be and didn’t care what anyone thought about it.
I ran around in the big field and woods behind our house singing, played in the irrigation ditch, snuck oats to the horses when they were in the barn, caught snakes, picked flowers, and climbed fences.
I wore whatever my mother let me out of the house in, even if that did not include a shirt. I still remember the day my mother told me that I was going to have to start wearing shirts when I went outside the house. I was 5, stomping around the yard in blue jeans and PF Flyers. I could run faster and jump higher without a shirt on, I am sure of it.
My main goals were to be able to read every book in the library and learn to draw a horse running, I think I pretty much wanted to be the smartest artist in the world. Or a writer. Or a singer. And have a big dog. I always liked big dogs.
I was shy around strangers, but it didn’t take all that long for me to get used to them and start issuing orders. I don’t think I was a big talker, except when I was explaining how things were going to be.
I loved to spend time alone–but I was not really afraid of anything. I didn’t prevaricate. I did whatever I wanted, and I expected people to do as I said or find their own gig. I did not give a fuck about what people thought about me.
The change started when I was not quite six and they wouldn’t let me start the first grade. My sixth birthday fell a few days past the deadline for starting school as a five year old and the school would not make an exception.
I was sad. I was angry. I was confused. I remember asking my Mom if she told them that I could already read and count, because I just knew that logic was all that was needed. I knew I was already way ahead of the other kids who’d be starting school with me. I knew it was silly of them not to let me start.
When I did finally start school, it was disappointing. Because I was so far ahead of the other first graders, the teacher tended to ignore me. They put me in the back of the class and asked me to read quietly and work on my own. They asked me to stop raising my hand all the time.
The other kids started to make fun of the weird girl who read all the time and knew all the answers in class.
I learned to hate recess.
Luckily, our family moved to Springfield part way through the year and I was much happier at Thurston Elementary. They still didn’t know quite what to do with me in the first grade, but they did send me directly into third grade the next year so I wasn’t bored any more.
I had wonderful teachers from then on: Ms. Macek, Miss Wallace, Mr. Siebert and Mrs. Garn. I loved them all, particularly Mrs. Garn. The librarian Mrs. Nugent let me check out stacks and stacks of books. The music teacher was a wonder. The honor choir even recorded two records while I was in school. Everything about the school seemed to be about helping us learn to be creative kids who loved to learn.
I loved school again, but still hated recess. I have never quite recovered the impressive self confidence I had as a tiny girl. In fact, it got worse and worse throughout my school years. I was scholastically successful, but a social wreck.
It’s only been in the last year or two that I’ve started working on overcoming that and actually enjoying being around people again.
I am still re learning how not to give a fuck.
And I am going to get there, too.
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