Throughout my life, I have been able to readily identify with an array of literary characters. Pinocchio, the Velveteen Rabbit, but most true to my life would have to be the Ugly Duckling.
The little kid who didn’t quite fit in, but spoke 3 languages fluently by four and a half and was programming (overseen by a computer engineering father) at the age of five on an Apple II+. In case you’re wondering, it came fully loaded with a screaming 64K of RAM, had dimensions of 40″x46″x12″, and weighed in at just 20#, all of this of course, didn’t include the monitor. Between the kidnapping worries (my brother and I were both toe-heads and white in a predominantly poor area of Taiwan who obviously belonged to the American family) and the risk of my little brother wandering off into the rice patties, we were safely tucked away from normal after school interaction behind a 15′ cinder block wall. This left me plenty of time to get to know myself and do such amazing things as spend 6 weeks or so programming a 2″ book of code so that upon winning each round it would spell out my name. As in, the final product producing a message of “CONGRATULATIONS <YOUR NAME>!” to which my little freckled face would light up with the green glow full of excitement and validation.
Moving along, elementary school was no fun, my mother teaching at every school I attended. We relocated every 2-3 years internationally and upon returning stateside, where it was quickly revealed that I was not cool there either. We settled back into our roots in Savannah when I was eleven. You know, with the cool kids whose parents had hung out in college when they were still just one shot of tequila-fueled poor decision away from creation. Square peg, round hole. No-show birthday parties, mocks in permanent marker in the gym. Was it my shoes? I remember a classmate’s older sister telling me one day at a basketball game of my brother’s that she knew I was having a hard time, but to keep my chin up, cause it would all change for me in highschool. I will never forget that act of reaching out, but she was wrong.
Highschool proved no better. My mother trying desperately to get me to fit in. By this point, I knew I was too far gone for that to occur. I wore baggy jeans, flannels, All-Stars… TURQUOISE, Fuckers! I was not going to be headed to Cotillion. I was not going to go to UGA and major in something cute only to return to Savannah and marry into a prominent last name. I wanted to ride my Santa Cruz board, go fishing, cuss like the older boys at the Marina, you know – be normal?
But normal is defined by grocery aisle gossip and gasps over telephone calls, followed by exaggerated “Oh I knowww”s and “bless your heart”s, and my mother fell for it time and time again. Surprisingly – even with the awful forced perm, two sets of braces, skinny bones, and extremely introverted personality, I wasn’t cool — or attractive. Actually, I didn’t even exist. I wanted to be cool. Who didn’t want to be cool? Who didn’t want to be liked? I Just wanted to be seen, for fuck’s sake. Appreciated for being a good skater, a scholarship awarded all-star select soccer player, an intellectual. “NOT GONNA HAPPEN <YOUR NAME>!“
High School ended. Years went by. I got funny. I refined my humor in college. I refined myself with the same attention that a professional ice sculpturist does. Chainsaw for big ugly pieces. Dental pic for details. And after settling into a career, some solid friends, and myself a bit more — I emerged.
It’s only recently that I’ve figured out that I was a gosling surrounded by ducks. It’s only recently that I see myself in a mirror and respect myself. Broad shoulders, big arms, kind eyes, genuine smile, good skin. I smell good. I’m funny, witty, smart. I make people laugh! I’m, on some days, very handsome. I have good friends, the love of an amazing woman (who, ps. was her highschool class president and the same girl I lusted for years ago reincarnate), I’m respected as someone with integrity and honor, someone people can count on when the gettin’s hard. I’ve started to make my way in the world, and people notice me — in a good way for the most part.
I’m grown up now, and although if facing my now-self as my then-self I would probably punch my now-self in the face for saying this… if I had to choose to be cool then, or be cool now … I pick the latter. My glory days are happening. My biggest moments are happening now. I don’t have to whip out old yearbooks full of “you’re so cool”s or remember that one play I made on the field or that one time I took the title of homecoming _______.
Plus, we all know what baby ducks end up looking like. They’re not the most impressive in the aesthetics department. And these ducks? Divorced, miserable, no self esteem, repeating the same mistakes their parents did at a UGA party, staring at their Cotillion card stashed away in their yearbooks and reminiscing about better times.
But a swan… that is another story. I’m a fucking swan, and I am probably one of the only people that I remember from back then who looks back at my highschool photos and doesn’t wish that I was still that.
<CONGRATULATIONS B!>
