When I meet new people, they ask if I’ve been bullied before. Oftentimes, I’ll just say or do something, and people seem to know that I’ve been bullied. I still get this question, and when I do, it hurts my feelings. They’re right—they’re all right. All throughout elementary and middle school, I was talked about, shamed, laughed at, and treated like I did not matter.
I learned one thing during this time. I learned that I wouldn’t ever be chosen. Ever. There would always be someone better than me. Whether it was on the playground with my so-called friends, being the ugly girl in middle school, or when guys only made conversation with me to ask for my friend’s number--I would not be picked. Ever since I was a kid, I’ve been overlooked. I wasn’t ever allowed to play with the other friend groups because I was weird, fat or ugly (seemed to always be some type of variant of those three words).
I remember one particular moment in sixth grade. My classmates and I were all sitting around chatting in our math class. We had a substitute teacher for about a month since we didn’t have a real math teacher. We configured ourselves into a circle and just talked about whatever it is sixth graders talk about. One of the ‘prettier’ girls in our grade piped up and said that all the boys should rate the girls. I was immediately trying to deter the class from that direction. For proper imagery, think tall, chubby, girl with glasses running down her sweaty face, acne everywhere, and (bonus point: I also had braces) teeth too big for her mouth.
I already knew where this was going. I’ve never been the stereotypical pretty Black girl. My eyes are too big for my face, I talk too loud, I never laid my edges (I still don’t!), and I was too tall for uniform pants. Needless to say, they ignored me and promptly began the process. I tried to seem nonchalant, like I wasn’t listening. I heard a six, five, eight, nine, ten, seven, and five, ring out across the classroom as they made their way down the line. Once I saw everyone looking at me, I looked up to see five sweaty sixth grade boys looking down at me.
“Two.”
I was labeled a two in a world of sixes, fives, and nines. Usually, I would’ve piped up and said something to deter them from looking at me. In that moment there, I was the smallest I’d ever been. I felt like an ant standing on the sidewalks of New York City during rush hour. I nervously pushed up my glasses and felt the stares of a thousand eyes. I stared back, wide-eyed and lip quivering.
That, ladies and gentlemen, is how my entire life has been. Feeling small in every sense but physical. Looking at the mirror in my room and deciding to take it off my wall and throw it away just so I wouldn’t see a ‘two’ everyday when I wake up. Crying myself to sleep because I know that my friends are prettier than I am, and everyone knows it. Not even looking up when guys approach me and my friends, because I know they’re not there for me. Writing this piece with such apathy because I’m so used to the feeling. That has been my life.
In fact, I am so tuned to this frequency of life that I’ve created this confident persona. Am I confident about most things? Sure! For example, my writing, my emotional intelligence, the way I connect with people, and much more. Am I sure about being someone’s first and only choice? Absolutely not. If you know me, you know that I am loud, humorous, and a good listener. All of these traits make up who I am, but they also make up who I am not.
Many people call me confident. They say I know who I am, and that I make sure everyone else knows who I am too. Truth is, I am not. I do not know who I am, and I am scared that everyone else will find out and exploit that. I am loud so that I won’t be able to hear what the people behind me are saying about me. I try to be funny so that people keep laughing in hopes that they don’t look at me for too long. I’m a good listener because if I talk too much, the first insult is always about my appearance. I feign confidence so that no one can catch me crying in the bathroom again. I feign confidence to protect the ‘two’ that I know I am and have always been. I feign confidence to save myself.
I know most are hoping for a happy ending, but as of right now, I am performing. I am no different than I was before. I will walk into school tomorrow just as happy and as confident as can be. I know that I won’t be chosen. I know that nine times out of ten, I’ll just be a stepping stone in someone’s eyes. You know why? It’s because I am still performing, hurting, and I am still a two.
