I was smiling. I didn’t want to smile, nor laugh. But there I was, smiling and laughing like an idiot.
They thought it was hilarious. “Put it on, put it on!” I was ten and obliged. I walked to the bathroom with my shame, to put “it” on.
Why didn’t I like it? It was cut well, black, and seventies cool. I did love the ironed on letters across the front. Sparkly silver rainbow letters. It was what it said.
Maybe I was being too sensitive. I put it on.
If fit well. I walked back out into the raucous family gathering.
More laughter. I didn’t get it. I didn’t get the joke. Were they saying I was stupid? How was I spacy? I understood more than most.
“It’s cute!”
I wore the shirt for the rest of the party, and never put “it” on again.
It stayed in the bottom of my drawer for years. I took it out once in a while and looked at it. Tried to understand why I hated it so much. I didn’t. Never did. Until now.
My aunt and uncle’s amusing gift removed my veil. It was clear they saw the struggle I worked so hard to hide. They all did. They didn’t understand it, but they saw it.
I fought to maintain focus. Often when my uncle spoke to me I looked at him and made the appropriate faces of interest, concern, agreement… I wasn’t listening. I loved him, but he bored me. I was inside my own head having a much more interesting conversation with myself.
“Try harder, stop procrastinating, focus.” I did. And then I burned out. The intense juggling act I performed daily went unnoticed. I gave up the outside pressure and went within.
Now I know why I never quite fit in. I kept it a secret all these years. Even from myself.
Finally, I get it. I get the joke. And I am relieved.
S. Conde