My title is a bit of an oxymoron. There never really has been anything "little" about me. I've always been taller and thicker than most people my age. I guess we can contribute the thickness to "hot potato chips". At least that's what I used to call them. I'm speaking of Snyder's or Mr. Bee's BBQ potato chips. I ate them like I would never get another taste when I was young. I've always had a thing for food. Until the last few years, when it really started catching up w/ me, food was my favorite passtime. I still enjoy eating more than most, but I've taught myself how to do it in moderation. And how to make better choices about what I eat. It works ~ most of the time, anyway!
Needless to say, going to school as a poor, unusually tall, chubby girl w/ glasses, none the less, was at times traumatic. Kids can be so mean. I don't know why most children haven't learned a sense of compassion by that age. That's much deeper than I want to go. And not having children of my own, something I couldn't possibly began to answer. I just hope that my kids never, ever make anyone feel the way my classmates made me feel on a daily basis.
I remember being in kindergarten. Things weren't so bad then. We were all still babies. We were all new to school. In that time, in my area, few if any kids went to daycare. Some went to HeadStart, but not many. Being away from our mothers was all new to most all of us. I remember crying when my teacher left the room. Which, by the way, seemed to happen often. She'd stay gone for what seemed like an eternity. I would get so scared. I don't what I was scared of. Maybe just the idea of not having an adult near frightened me. But I would cry my little eyes out. I wasn't the only one that did, but one of very few.
It didn't take long for the bullies to realize the potential they had at a grade school. By 2nd grade, it was on. The popular kids had been crowned. The poor kids had been demeaned, and the chunky, shy kids had been targeted. I, of course, was a chunky, shy kid above all else. I was just desperate to fit in. My best friend, whom I'd grown up w/ since we were born, was a popular kid. She never made fun of me to my face. But she never tried to protect me, either. I guess that even at that age, we have a sense of "look out for #1".
I could go on and on about the never ending teasing and occaisional "pull of the ears" or other childish antics, but I'd rather focus attention to what helped get me through the toughest years of my life.
At a time when life at home w/ my father could be just as bad as life at school, there was someone who saw a special "light" in me. Someone other than my mother. Until that point, no aunt, grandparent or friend had ever made me feel special. No one other than my mother, of course. But my 3rd grade teacher, Mrs. Hudson, we'll call her, saw something in me that I still hold deep inside to this day. She made me feel so good about myself. She would do small, extra little things for me like give me an extra gold star sticker in my report card. She would even tell me that I was her favorite and she didn't know how she would handle this particularly difficult class had I not been in it. I stayed after school to help her get things in order. She gave me a confidence that I don't think I would have now, if it weren't for her guidance.
At that age, I was easily dismissed by teachers. I was smart, but shy. I did my work, sat in my seat and never argued back. I was easy to forget. For Mrs. Hudson to take the time and effort to make a point of including me and making me feel special, is something I think about often.
Although the teasing continued until I was in the 6th grade, I took it a little better. Before Mrs. Hudson, I thought about suicide quite often. How sad is that?? A child contemplating taking her own life. She gave me hope. And I thank her for it.
Now, I know you're thinking, "You said in your first blog that you had a happy childhood". I think I did. Things were very hard, but there were many bright spots in my life, too. My main source of happiness came from a mother who loved my sister and I the way I hope to love my own children one day. She sacrificed everything for us, yet she never complained. She gave us her time and attention, which to a child, is worth more than anything in the world. So yes, my childhood was happy. I wasn't physically abused, thank God. I don't know how victims of physical abuse cope. I think that the scar must follow them, even into adult life.
Whenever I think about the bad, I try to focus on the good. Things could always have been much worse. And they were worse for someone else.
