The Broken Me

It was a screaming contest between the three of us.  My eleven-year-old sister, Judy, had a good solid scream, but her friend Esther's was incredible; it was a beautiful high-pitched, piercing shrill that she could hold steady for twenty seconds or more. My scream sounded like a chicken giving birth to a breech egg.  Esther won.

I was eight and starting to take note of things I could not do well or not do at all.  Screaming was out.  So were whistling, singing, snapping my fingers, skipping rope, and throwing a ball. I also couldn't read like the rest of my classmates, and they were fast to single me out as different. When it came time for picking teammates, I was generally the last one standing. Concentration was difficult for me as well as sitting still or staying clean or keeping on task or following the rules.  A mix of these things in concert throughout each day kept me in a constant state of feeling broken.

What a difference a few chromosomes make.  Judy--same mother, same father--was the model child that Mother had prayed for.   She was pretty, smart, obedient, conforming, demure, and sweet.  I was an unattractive child who challenged the rules, found different means to justify the end, and was demur (demure without the "e").  But I was sweet.  Still am.  Just ask Tom.

Judy is seventy now and is still making Mother proud (me too).  I still can't scream or whistle or sing or snap my fingers or skip rope or throw a ball, and that's okay because it was that mix of things (and many more) in concert throughout my life that kept me always working that much harder to fix the broken me.  In 1953 no teacher excused me for not being able to read because I had a learning disability.  No one in my family appeared to notice.  It was very hard, but I fixed the problem myself. (Just sayin'...not making any politically-incorrect statement here.)

So, have I fixed most of those things that keep me in a constant state of feeling broken?  Nah!  But I'm sweet.   No, really I am.