I hope all is well in your life and that you are warm and dry wherever you live. Life is good for us and we are doing what we can to stay healthy and live according to our chosen path.
Mr.S. is surprisingly healthy and has even seen improvements in his physical condition due to really good care by our VA medical community and excellent living conditions at his assisted living residence. Proper nutrition and accurate and prompt medication delivery do make a difference in senior health care.
Our local bird population has returned to our feeders in large numbers, with an astounding 16 goldfinches on the socks at one time. They are a fine example of a cooperating species, something that the house sparrows just can't seem to do. Those ornery critters fight over anything and everything, even when there is an abundance of food for all of them.
The story for this posting is one of growth and acceptance that takes place over the span of twelve years, from 1959 to 1971.
The message I wish to convey to anyone who has ever felt different because of color, size, shape, physical or mental abilities, whatever... is that you aren't different in a bad way, you are unique! Celebrate your difference and be happy that you aren't a clone, or poured from a mold to someone else's specification. Read the tale of discovery and see what you think.
Growing up… different
I would say
that I was a normal enough looking boy growing up, perhaps a bit on the small
and puny side, partially caused by genetics (my parents weren’t large people)
and some of which I attribute to being sick a lot. Really, I was just the kid who lived in the
house on the corner.
One of the
things that made me different from others was my insatiable thirst for
knowledge. Just knowing something wasn’t good enough, I had to know the why
behind it all.
That desire
got an unexpected boost from the somewhat self-serving desire (she got a
commission) of my first grade teacher to sell my parents a set of World Book
encyclopedias. Her efforts worked well to fuel my need for an input fix. How
could anyone not want books!
It was the
way that she convinced my parents and what happened afterwards, that dropped me
squarely into the category of “different.”
Being too smart
I was at
school long enough in the beginning of first grade to take several batteries of
tests, (many more than my classmates who only took two) and the results of each
test seemed to be that I had to take another. I thought that there was
something wrong with me and that I was in trouble somehow… what did I know, I
was six years old!
Before any of
the test results could be explained to me, or I could do anything other than
have to read out loud to the class every day, I got sick with bronchial
pneumonia and nearly died. My temperature stayed around 105 for so long that
they thought that I would burn my brain to a cinder.
Surprise! I didn't die! But I did miss six weeks of school (that time) and my older brother
was terrifying me with suggestions that I was going to be held back for missing
class. So when my teacher, Mrs. Reynolds, showed up at the house, I just knew
that I was doomed. Because in little kid minds, anything unexplainable is
ALWAYS doom.
When I was
called into the living room to sit quietly and witness what was to take place I
could see my brother’s face (who was at school) saying, “You are going to get
it now!” It was a rare thing to have my father at home during the day, so I was
sure something bad was waiting to fall on my head.
My teacher
brought in two items: a manila envelope with my name on it, which she placed
beside her on the couch, and a folder full of shiny papers about World Book
encyclopedias that she laid out on the coffee table so that my parents could
see it all. I really had no idea what selling encyclopedias was about so it was
all just “stuff” to me.
In 1959 you
did not question anything that an adult did, so I sat quietly and watched,
waiting for one of them to say something to me and hoping that it penetrated my
drifting thoughts so that I didn't get into trouble for not paying attention
when they spoke. My mind never slowed down and I could be anywhere, which
proved to be a problem when what was going on around me was boring; and it
usually was.
My mother’s
voice brought me back to the present as she was looking at me, but speaking to
the teacher. I finally processed her question and nearly swallowed my tongue as
she asked, “does that mean that Kenneth (she always used my full name) will
have to be held back a year?”
Mrs. Reynolds
looked at me and laughed, possibly because I had the look of a boy about to wet
himself, or maybe because she was dealing with parents who didn’t know what a
strange child they had.
“No ma’am,”
she said, “If anything, he should probably be advanced a year.”
As that news
sank in to my parents brains, (and I sat there still unsure of my fate), she
reached for the package of kryptonite on the couch beside her. It was to launch
me on my career of always being different.
She could see
that my parents were clearly not going to spend the small fortune on the set of
books that they had no use for. If it wasn’t a decorating or gardening
magazine, my mother wasn’t interested. For my father it had to be a technical
manual for work, or the newspaper; nothing else mattered. To spend so much
money on a set of reference books which could be found in any school or public
library was a ridiculous expense to them. This was a time when one dollar could
buy a loaf of bread, a gallon of milk and a gallon of gasoline… with change
left over.
I could see
that my teacher was truly in her element, (although to me it just looked like
her happy face) as she opened the envelope while saying to my parents, “Before
you decide, I think that you need to know about these test results…”
It has been
impossible to forget my father’s words as Mrs. Reynolds explained each set of
papers to them which showed me to be far ahead of my classmates in every area
tested. He said, “So now what are we supposed to do with him?” Yes, it was
true, I had mental leprosy…
My cunning
teacher knew that she had them at that point and eased the shiny papers back in
front of my parents saying, “He must have the proper resources to realize his
potential…” and other such mind twisting platitudes and clichés which she skillfully
employed in her part time occupation of book peddler. The woman had talents
obviously underutilized as a first grade teacher; she could have sold sand to a
Bedouin.
When she used
the “G” word (genius) my father told me to go to my room and shut the door. It
was apparently harmful for a child to know that they were smart, or something.
I just went to my room… I liked it better in there anyway.
She had them
caught in that mixed moment of uncertainty where pride; and fear of not doing
enough for their child, met. They wanted a certain degree of parental bragging
rights, but without any large commitments of cash if they could help it. It was
a dilemma to be sure.
“Yeah, our
son is a genius… we keep him in a cardboard box and shoot grapes to him with a
slingshot so he doesn’t contaminate our other children. He will outgrow it
before he reaches college age… I hope.”
They signed
the papers and the set of 1960 World Book encyclopedias plus the 1961 yearbook
were on their way. My father was grumpy for a week as he grumbled about the
money being spent on books.
I was as
happy as a pig in mud, I finally had something new to read and read them I did.
For six weeks plus (while I was at home sick) I read until I fell asleep and
then began again when I awoke. I read every book of the twenty-one piece set in
order and then my favorite sections again and again. I soaked up so much
information that my brothers and older sister would pick on me for “thinking
that I knew everything.” I was fairly exploding with information and even
though I was a sick little kid who had a tough time breathing between coughing
spells, my fun meter was pegged!
Having an
eidetic memory with a more than 90% retention rate made life interesting as I
quoted them page and paragraph when they challenged what I said about things. I
had the information, but lacked the wisdom needed to not be seen as arrogant or
offensive, at least in my sibling’s eyes. I wasn’t trying to be a know-it-all,
I just wouldn’t back down if I was right about something; a problem that I
still have today.
The next year
I was healthier and doing better in a room with two female classmates who were
well above average academically helping take the heat off of me; until the IQ
tests were administered.
The book
check out rule at our school library was two books at a time, per library
visit… for everyone except me. The librarian was the coolest lady at the
school, without exception. She was super smart and appreciated my love of
reading and books in general. I had no limit on how many books I could check
out or how many times I could visit the library. I was there at least twice a
day, every day; usually three times unless the teacher wouldn’t let me go at
lunch time. I carried a stack of books home every afternoon and never, ever
damaged or lost one.
Yes, I was a
full blown book-a-holic by then, reading everything that I could get hold of
and challenging everyone and everything that was wrong. I was definitely a
problem child, being described frequently as “different” in public, and
“not-right-in-the-head” behind closed doors that didn’t block sound quite as
well as the adults thought.
Uh-oh, IQ Testing
When we were
given IQ tests administered by a company which did so as their business (and
usually at colleges) the trouble started in earnest. The school had conducted
its own testing prior to this year and the older teachers resented anyone else
holding court in their classrooms where their rule had always been absolute. It
didn’t seem to matter (to my teacher) that the young man in our classroom had
PhD after his name. In fact after I asked him what it meant and said “wow!” at
his answer, my teacher was fairly scowling at both of us.
My second
grade teacher, Miss Wright (not related), was a crotchety older woman well past
retirement age, but she had nothing else to do, so she refused to leave. I
think the administrators were too afraid of her to force the issue. Our
principal had been one of her students when he was in second grade.
This was my
educational guide, my teacher, who, upon looking at my score blurted out, “This
can’t be right, he must have cheated somehow, it can’t be this high.”
My face
turned red as a tomato because I had never been accused of something so heinous
in my short life. I wouldn’t have known how to cheat IF it would have ever
occurred to me to do so, which it never did. I didn’t need to cheat on
anything.
The test
proctor saw my face and went off on Miss Wright, in a quiet and dignified way
which I admired him for (I hated yelling). Without ever raising his voice, he had
the much older woman backed down and quiet in short order. Relatively quiet
anyway, she was muttering things under her breath.
He took me to
the back of the classroom and administered a second battery of tests, sporting
a red glow on his face as he tried to work through his apparent anger, which
now as an adult I can truly appreciate.
Upon
completion of my test scoring, which had taken us well into recess (I wasn’t
allowed to leave lest I be accused of doing something wrong), he got nose to
nose with my teacher and said, “Well, well Miss Wright, you were correct about
his score…” which upon hearing she got a smug look on her face and glared at
me, “his score is actually five points higher!” and he called out the two
scores (which I won’t state here). He also called my house and told my mother,
just in case my teacher didn’t.
That night at
dinner I heard the “G” word whispered from my mother to my father and both
looked at me like I had done something wrong. My older brother picked up on it
and called me a weirdo. I guess that I really felt like one too. But I had no
idea why being smart was a bad thing; I still don’t.
After that
testing incident my teacher switched gears, parading me around like a side show
freak along with my two female classmates who were the other members of my
reading group in her class. She delighted in making us read for every class in
the school. Collectively we were reading three grades ahead of everyone else, I
tested out at tenth grade (10.7) level, but wasn’t allowed to have a curriculum
past grade five for a reason that was unknown to me then. I have since had it
explained to me that most likely my teacher was not certified to teach beyond
the K-6 level, thus my restriction.
That moment
of glory for her as the teacher “responsible”, translated into a non-stop
series of battles for me. Because of my reading ability the older kids, boys
especially, felt like I was making fun of them or putting them down in some
way. They had been made to feel inferior or inadequate and it made them angry.
That anger was directed at me and they missed no opportunity to convey that message
with their fists and feet. I had more fights than Joe Louis, just while I was
in elementary school.
Was I
different? Apparently I was the freak that my brother teased me about being.
But while I acknowledged being different, I never saw myself as being wrong in
the way I thought or acted. I fought back punch for punch and sometimes I got
beat up, but not often, because I could out think my opponents. I often got reported
to my principal and/or my mother for being a trouble maker. I just didn’t have
a reverse gear and wouldn’t back up when I knew that I was right.
While the
world around me was living in the very white 1950’s and ‘60’s, red was not only
associated with Russians and communism, but the necks of those that I was
“supposed” to associate with.
We had our
“kind” I was told by the preacher and Sunday school teacher; our white,
protestant, straight, carefully non-ethnic kind. Like the Baptist preacher
before him, this Methodist minister made it clear that it also had to be people
who prayed and believed in exactly the same way as the interpretation of the
bible that his church promoted. It seemed that their chosen version of God
hated all of the same people that they did… how convenient I thought. I smelled
a rat in organized religion even then, and life kept handing me more proof as I
got older.
Kids who
looked like me but weren’t as smart made up the group surrounding me in elementary
school (K-6 for my international readers) this lead me to joining a gang (at
ten years old) comprised of older boys who could handle my intelligence easier,
but still were rednecks. Being involved with them lead me to such sterling
achievements as stealing the light bar off of the top of a cop car while they
were taking an unauthorized meal break, breaking into a school and moving a
teacher’s desk to the roof, and numerous gang fights at the high school
football stadium at night. They were also no stranger to drugs and alcohol use.
I did the drinking but wouldn’t touch the drugs as I had already witnessed an
overdose death and bizarre behavior. The kids pushing me to try drugs actually
saved me… the more someone pushed, the less likely I would ever do what they
wanted. Being different saved my butt; again!
After I met
some Cuban kids my life took a turn for the better, as their family didn’t care
that I was smart, or white. Then I some Italians from New York moved in next
door and a Jewish family, also from New York started sending their son to my
school instead of private school.
Junior High School
By the time
we entered the seventh grade our group looked like the United Nations. My
Seminole Indian brothers and sisters, joined the black kids and our old gang
(not really a gang, I got out of that) and we got along incredibly well. We
represented all religions and no religion, it didn’t matter to us what anyone
believed. We looked more like a group found on Ellis Island than kids from
Hollywood, Florida.
We had our
own language made up of words from multiple languages like Spanish, Italian,
Yiddish, Miccosukee, Swahili, and some that we just plain made up, all to
confuse those who made fun of us or would do us harm in one fashion or another.
The local police officers really didn’t like us speaking our cobbled together
language and harassed us at every opportunity, calling us “commies” and would not
allow us to gather together at any fast food place or convenience store, etc.
saying that we were unruly troublemakers that would drive business away. For
the record, we never once caused trouble, stole anything, or even littered! We
were extremely careful about what we did, as some of us did have “experience”
with the law and didn’t want any trouble.
My friends
didn’t care that I was probably smarter than they were, nor did they care that
I was white; in the same way that their color, ethnicity, or religious beliefs
were unimportant to me. We had something very powerful in common… we were all
different. We were the outcasts of the local societal norms; we did not fit the
mold of what “should” be.
I started
getting visits from the Methodist church youth group leaders who were all high
school age. They had heard about my association with all of these people of
different colors and religions and decided that they had to intervene and save
my soul from eternal damnation (their exact words). I made it as clear as I
could that I did not need, nor did I want their salvation. They came back again
and were going to take me to church by force and pray over me.
As you know
by now, I never have taken kindly to being pushed into something, so when the
youth group leader grabbed my arm I hit him as hard as I could and broke his
nose. Having the element of surprise in my favor, I ran before they could all
jump on me. They tried again, this time with all girls, knowing that I wouldn’t
hit them. But I saw them and slipped out the backdoor and up onto the roof of
our house where no one knew where I was. My mother had to tell them that she
didn’t know where I was, which was the truth. She didn’t see me go outside.
They waited for over an hour before they left.
My mother
never would admit to calling the pastor, (who in turn sent the teenagers to see
me), but a girl I knew was good friends with his daughter and she told me that
it was true. I told my mother that I was never going back to that church ever
again, and I didn’t. The youth group kids never came back.
My adopted
families all treated me like their son, even though I was obviously different;
they truly didn’t care. They also didn’t hold the fact that I was white kid in
a white dominated society which was very hard on all of them against me. They
shared their cultures with me, fed me, hugged me and showed me what love and
hospitality was all about. Different felt really good to me about then.
It was during
this time period that I experienced one of the lowest forms of humanity that I
have ever known. I went with my Seminole brothers to secretly observe a KKK
rally, which you can read about in “The Truth about the KKK”. I was never so
proud of being different in my life. If those fools were normal, I didn’t (and
don’t) want any of it (being normal).
High School
My first high
school was a logistical nightmare as multiple schools were shut down in our
area, and they all dumped students into our school. We had five staggered
starting times, plus a whole village of portable modular classrooms set up in
rows A through Z and numbered outward from the main school buildings, there
were literally thousands of students on campus.
My World
History class was held in the auditorium and had 750 students in it with five
teachers. One lectured while the other four patrolled trying to keep order. The
teacher in our section told us that he wouldn’t report us if we skipped class,
as there was no way to keep the room cool enough. Every human body that wasn’t
there putting off heat helped the cause.
The local
drug dealers were having the most profitable days of their lives with so many
customers in the now nearly uncontrollable student body. We had gangs in the
halls of both white and black varieties. I knew representatives from all of the
local gangs but the kids from the other schools were new to me. That got me
into trouble as I was deemed a problem because I wouldn’t side with anyone
against the others. This earned me an ice pick in the back while in the crowded
halls at class changing time. Fortunately for me it didn’t hit anything vital
as my shoulder blade stopped it. No one ever took credit for the attack.
In an
unrelated action; I got suspended for punching my biology teacher for putting
his hands on me. Yes, he was a very effeminate, short, hairy, gay man that we
all knew was gay, but it had nothing to do with sexual behavior. I was late
coming from my previous class (Physical Education) due to our coach keeping us
out on the field longer than he should have. It was an excused “tardy”
situation, even announced over the school P.A. system, which unfortunately the
portable classroom I was entering still did not have installed.
I entered the
classroom, apologizing for my tardiness (and interrupting) as I tried to go to
my assigned seat. Mr. “P.” was a “shoulder grabber” and I had asked him not to
put his hands on me previously.
As I walked
past him he latched onto my shoulder in his version of the “Vulcan neck pinch”,
which caused the very quiet girl in the first seat to utter an “Oh shit”. She
was right to anticipate trouble; I spun on my heel, turned and punched the
teacher square in the face, knocking him out the still open door and down the
three steps to the asphalt sidewalk below. I followed him out and as I stepped
over him, said. “I am going to the principal’s office now Mr. P. You really
shouldn’t have touched me again.”
I went
directly to the administrative building, walked up to the receptionist and told
her that I had just punched a teacher and needed to see the principal. Said
principal just happened to be my father’s football coach from his high school
days at a different school. I fully expected to be shot at sunrise.
The sentence
was just three days suspension, largely due to the stack of statements in my
behalf from other students who had witnessed not only the altercation, but the
previous occasions where I had repeatedly asked the teacher to keep his hands
off of me. He never did anything overtly sexual; it was just the physical
contact of being grabbed that I didn’t like. There was also a stack of
complaints from other students who had problems with him for one reason or
another. None of which was enough to get him removed as he had tenure and there
was a shortage of qualified teachers willing to subject themselves to the
horrendous conditions of overcrowding that we were experiencing.
We (my
parents and I) elected to change schools instead to fighting with that mess any
longer.
It was at
this point that I decided to give up on traditional team sports. I still
rodeoed and surfed, but didn’t care about football, baseball, track, or
wrestling. The truth is, I never cared about them but had to compete to be
accepted. I preferred to wander the swamp with my Seminole friends or just my
dog. Animals were more interesting to me than cars, which drove my brothers
crazy.
That
“different” label emerged again and again; I didn’t care what others thought
was important and no longer tried to fit their mold of whom or what I should
be.
My second
high school brought conflict between social groups like cowboys and hippies, and
more racial tensions between whites and blacks, including a riot at school engineered
by outsiders who were causing unrest for their own agendas. I was caught in the
crossfire as I had friends on both sides and didn’t think that any of what they
were yelling about was enough reason to hurt people. I rodeoed with the cowboys
and listened to Santana, Janis Joplin and the Grateful Dead with the hippies;
and I didn’t care who smoked weed… I didn’t smoke, but that just wasn’t
important to me.
Once again I
was different and on the outside, shaking my head at what the “normal” people
were doing.
We moved as
my senior year was about to begin and I went to a school (my third high school)
where I was Albert Einstein reincarnated if you looked at GPAs or test scores.
I also didn’t play golf and wasn’t a devotee of NASCAR. They could hardly
believe that I was white when I played Motown and James Brown (along with my
regular rock and roll music) instead of Hank Williams and Johnny Cash, etc.
There were
two classes that worked for me (and I could scarcely believe were even offered
in such a backwards place), those being psychology and English Literature (as
in Shakespeare, Chaucer, Milton, etc.). They were understandably small classes
and only offered because of teacher availability. The basic level classes of
English, Mathematics and Biology 1 were bursting at the seams and kids were
graduating from high school with an embarrassing lack of ability in any of
them.
My
participation in the aforementioned classes, as well as teaching general math
to half of my class (read about it in my story: “What don’t you understand?”)
labeled me as different, to put it nicely.
These people
were mostly bigoted, blissfully ignorant, and proud of it. They made up a
strange collage of high society cultural behaviors like cotillion’s and horse
show jumping, mixed with Masters Golf Tournament devotees, and some of the
poorest, least educated throwbacks to plowing behind a mule that it boggled the
mind to contemplate.
I had never
been so happy to be different in my life.
And so it was
that my entire young lifetime of being different had prepared me for the
adventures I would undertake as adult, and I believe far better than I could
ever have planned.
The simple
acceptance of other cultures as equal and valid to that of stereotypical white America
has undoubtedly saved my life at least once, and has made breaking bread with
people of many ethnicities and lifestyles around the globe an easy and natural
thing.
My life has
been rich precisely because of being different and I heartily recommend it to
everyone.
If anyone
dares to call you “normal,” take off your clothes and dance in a fountain, or
howl at the full moon on a starry night. Dance to your own drummer and color outside
the lines if you want to. Greatness doesn’t come in a plain brown wrapper and
the only limitations on your life are the ones placed there by you.
Dare to be
different.
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