An Uncommon Prejiduce.

It is to be warned here in the beginning of this blog that there is usage of a particular vulgar, politically incorrect term for someone who doesn’t look right in this blog. If you are sensitive to the use of the vulgarity used to describe mentally handicapped, physically handicapped, or physically awkwardness, you should stop reading this entry now. The names of the people in this blogs have been changed to protect the families of the people involved in this story. Otherwise, the events and the time frames of the story are true and as accurate as the writers’ memory. I have had this curse of having an awkward figure all of my life. My physical appearance has been the butt of many jokes, been the cause of me getting into many fist fights, was the reason for the vast majority of my injuries and scars. Throughout my childhood, I thought I was alone. My perception was that there was no one else out there like me. I didn’t even realize there were such things as sexism, racism, and creedism until later on in life. This was driven by the fact that I didn’t see this kind of hatred being directed towards anybody else. I didn’t see it not because I didn’t want to see it, but rather because my attention and observational prowess was directed towards observations that would help save me further humiliation, physical scars, being beaten up, and, on a few occasions, being killed. It wasn’t until my sophomore year in high school that I met the first person I was aware of that was being stereotyped against in a violent or negative way. And it was in the same fashion that I was cursed. He and I both looked different, therefore the vast majority of our peers perceived us as “retarded,” regardless of whether or not we were actually mentally or physically retarded. Steve Smith and I were the school mascots for the socially cursed. It was shortly thereafter that I met the entire crew in which Smith regarded as his friends. I realized at that point that not only am I not alone, but it is more common than people realize. I also realized a few weeks later that the reason why people don’t much realize it is because the authority figures were actively segregating those who simply looked “different” – i.e. looked retarded – from the rest of the student body. At the time I didn’t understand the why; all I knew is that it was wrong. So, as soon as I realized what was going on, I went on trying to convince these poor souls that they can, in fact, lead relatively normal social lives. This should be easy, I thought. Long and tedious, but easy. I looked retarded, just like them, which allowed them to trust me as one of their own. I was also a rising star as a pitcher on the school baseball team, so I did have my foot in the door of the life of a normal person, as we understood the term back them. Here is where I should make one thing clear. In the world of someone who is shunned for looking like a retard, we don’t see the world in many numerous sociological classes of people; we see two groups: Those being shunned – us – and those doing the shunning – them. Those being shunned – the Us – feel they have to band together to survive, that they are their only hope for even a negligible sliver of normalcy. Those doing the shunning – the Them – are considered to be the “normal people,” regardless of sociology, culture, class, race, gender, sub-culture, age or any other fact. Those who look retarded and those who don’t. That’s it. Simple as that. So I proceeded to mold them into what would be perceived as normal. Sure as hell can’t get them to look it, but damn it, I was going to allow them to act it. And as I did so, we all came to think of me as the leader of this group, the president of the Valley High School Socially Awkward, so to speak. And eventually, over the next two and a half years, that’s what I did. By the time I got my cap and gown, everyone that I knew with my curse in the classes of 2003, 2004, and 2005 had some semblance of normalcy. They – we – weren’t all the way there, and may never be since we started the game late, but we were closer than we could have ever dared to dream to be. Then the day of graduation came. Steve Smith, who ended up being my second in command, so to speak, got us together, the 27 of us afflicted with this curse of the Las Vegas Valley High School class of 2003, to do a little speech just for us. It was a good speech, until the very last sentence. “But it’s going to happen again, and it’s going to be worse than we have ever experienced.” I shot a glare at him. One that said, “don’t say that; they’ll believe it. And all our work would be in vain.” I shook it off, though. The ceremony was about to start. My knee was acting up on me, but that a different story all together. We were all separate in the line. I was tired anyways; not much sleep the night before. The ceremony ends, and out of those 27 of us with this curse, all of us started freshmen year of high school with serious threats of getting a special education diploma. But now that we have our diploma’s, I have come two find out that only 2 actually got the special education diploma. They were so close to getting the regular diploma, 2 credits away. Out of the other 25 of us, I was the only one that got the honors diploma. We were all as normal as we have ever been up to that point. A week passes by. I had not heard from Smith or David Nova, one of the two of the group to get a special education diploma since the ceremony. I call Smith’s house. His step father picks up the phone. “Where’s Steve?” I ask. “Don’t tell me you haven’t heard!” he nearly yells at me. “No, I haven’t heard. What’s wrong?” I am near panicking. I really didn’t hear what happened. “He killed himself the night of graduation! And it’s ALL! YOU’RE! FAULT!” After he yells at me about his reasons why he thinks it’s my fault – showing him to that world of normalcy, knowing that it would be yanked away – I call Nova’s place. His mother answers. She tells me in a sad tone that he also killed himself that night. He left a note. “Smith was right,” it had said. “It will return, and it will be worse. After all, we all know that things are worse in the real world than they are in school.” I know at that point what Nova’s reason is for committing suicide; he knew what it was like to be shunned for his appearance, and he knew what it was like to have some semblance of normalcy. And he believed that he was going to go back to being the shunned in the real world, and he believed that it was going to be worse there. He believed what Smith had said before the Graduation ceremony. I can only assume that’s why Smith did it, too. Over the years, I have seen the other 26 people of the group commit suicide. They all experienced what Smith had said first hand, and couldn’t handle it. They all had proven Smith right. At this point, out of the 27 people of Valley High School’s class of 2003 with this curse, there is only one person alive today to tell this story. That person is me. And to this day, I believe that I am the cause for all of them committing suicide. If I had not allowed them to taste what it’s actually like to be normal, they all may still be alive today. For a brief time, they were authentically happy, and it cost them all their lives’. And it cost me this weight, this burden to carry with me for all eternity. Smith may have been right for 96.3% of us, but I refuse to let him be right about the other 3.7%. What kind of leader would I be if I did? As I sit here, typing this blog, I keep asking myself one question. It is something that I use to justify my actions, without having to plead ignorance. Is it worth dying an early death to taste happiness in a world of hurt and pain? I’d like to think so.