Life in the Margins

I am walking through the rows of lockers on the second floor of my high school. It’s fifth period, and most students are in class. I wonder at the quiet as I make my way to my locker. Really, I shouldn’t be here right now. The thing is, I forgot to bring my homework to class with me, and I asked for the restroom pass and came here instead. I can’t afford to get another zero on homework. In fact, it would be a tragedy, since I actually did it this time. 

As I reach the row my locker is in, I feel the dread start to churn in my stomach. No, I haven’t been caught by the school security guard, the guy some kids call “Jerry the Blueberry”. No, it’s jocks, and their proximity to my locker is bringing me down. I know I’m gonna get it.

I’m a girl, so they don’t hit me. (Hitting is a much cleaner, quicker, perhaps kinder brutality than what they have in store for me.) Their weapon of choice is ridicule. Today they pretend that one of them “likes” me. So basically, they’re using me to embarrass a member of their group. They keep ribbing the guy, saying, “There she is. Aren’t you gonna ask her out?” Then, of course, there’s the snickering.

It’s been over fifteen years, and I still remember what it was like to live on the fringes. I say “fringes” because this sort of thing was not limited to my school life. 

My cousins, and even a couple of uncles, enjoyed picking on me at family gatherings. I mean that they thoroughly enjoyed it. In their own rendition of the song “My Favorite Things”, torturing me would probably have featured prominently. Their devices were similar to those applied at school. 

In my teen years, I found out that a couple of my cousins referred to me as “Snuffaluffagus”. Naturally, I felt hurt over it. I also secretly wondered at the fact that they had watched an educational show like Sesame Street and had only taken from the experience yet another way to be cruel.

I was heavy as a teenager. I’m 5’8”, and have been since the fifth grade. My build is broader than it is feminine, and I have been graced or plagued, depending on the day, with somewhat distinctive features. My nose is crooked. My neighbor hit me on the face with a Tonka truck when we were both four. (It was only fair, though, since I’d hit him first.) My hair is a horror all its own. It is frizzy and and looks untidy on a good day. Did I mention that I’m the only person on my mom’s side of the family with curly hair? 

As a kid, I wondered what it was about me that made me a target. I was overweight, sure, but there were certainly fatter kids at school who didn’t get picked on. There were other girls with crooked noses, bad hair, and other atrocious characteristics who never heard a word about it. (Honestly, I asked them!)

Over the years, I have had small revelations regarding the fact that I don’t fit in. One thing that has always struck me as odd is that I speak differently from other El Pasoans. People from that region tend to either have a twangy Texan accent, or a Spanish-tinged accent. I have neither. I have been accused of trying to “sound white”.  Trust me when I say that I would never try to sound like anything other than what I am.

When I was born, my parents decided that they wouldn’t speak to me in Spanish. They’d had a difficult time in school because they only ever heard Spanish at home. They weren’t used to speaking English, and struggling to function in this other language was a daily torture. So they decided to spare me. 

My mom watched Sesame Street with me from the time I was able to hold my head up. When I was a bit older, we watched anything that was on, all of it in English. I basically learned to speak as my mom strengthened her English -- while watching television. As I recall, people on t.v. in the 70’s and 80‘s mostly spoke the kind of English that news anchors speak, and that is what I learned.

I never had to worry about understanding English in school. At the same time, I didn't just speak English. I spoke it well, and this was a burden. I tried in middle school to deflect some of the criticism by incorporating the Mexican slang some of the kids used, but it didn’t fly. I felt like an imposter and just reverted to using the words I was comfortable with.

A few months ago, I watched an episode from the nature series Living Planet. One of the creatures featured is a caterpillar that fights off preying ants by placing a dot of smelly slime on the head of its predator. When the ant returns to the nest, the other ants are unable to recognize it as one of their own, and in turn attack it. Sure, I applauded the caterpillar’s ingenuity, but at the same time, I felt deeply for the ant. 

Finally, in high school, I figured that since I couldn’t defeat the things that separated me from the normal kids, I would embrace them. I wore black lipstick, pierced my nose (on my own, in my room at home) and listened to Morrissey. I made it my mission to stand out, and in the process, I was able to embrace the perspective that living on the outside lines provided. I also picked up a vocabulary and a love for a clever turn of phrase.

Some things about me have changed since those days. I no longer dress with the sole purpose of setting myself apart anymore. I simply wear what I like. Popularity is something that never factors into my decisions. This has been the best blessing of all. I didn’t initially choose to be different, but I am thankful for the insight it has afforded me. Instead of trying to fit in through most of my adolescence, I spent that time getting to know myself. I didn’t enter my 20’s confused and searching for an identity, and I was able to simply go about the business of living life.