- My Childhood Strengths and Weaknesses -
As a child my life was scattered into many personalities. I always was a complex person and will probably be one until the day I die. Of coarse all people live their life on different levels, but for me I would have to say most of my time has been spent in an emotional level.
Growing up in a family where your parents did most of the talking gave me little time to express myself. My parents never really understood my unique emotional side and dismissed everything I said, and did so probably thinking, “Oh, he’s just 5 so nothing he does matters or makes sense.” Their closed minds pushed me into independence. From the time I was young all of my thoughts and emotions had to be kept private. Being independent was the only way for me to be expressive.
The problem was I became too independent. Never really having a friend until the 6th grade I spent most of my time doing my own thing in my own special chair. The hardest moments, though, was when I’d have to land the spaceship I was in, and come into reality. Having to answer for myself was my biggest weakness. When I was asked a question I tended to always smirk. It wasn’t a useful habit when it came to lying. I was many times falsely judged due to a little smile that cracked from my lips. It wasn’t because I was lying, but because I never understood what anyone was talking about. The real world became the fantasy since my emotional world of dreams, that distracted me from the pain, was my world.
It still lingers today as I get lost in art and music, but I’d never want it to change. Life’s too short to live in reality.
Sunday, June 18, 2006
Mary's Crowning (6-18-2006)
When I was a child, I went to a Catholic school. At that time I was very much alone. When children fought on the playground it wasn’t long till word of mouth alerted one of the nuns. It was our duty to tell if you witnessed anything, or act remorseful if you were ever involved in a fight. After recess those engaged in this crime were pulled aside and asked, “Is that something Jesus would want you to do?” When it was me, I felt like crying. With my hands at my side, I would secretly pinch my thighs hard in punishment for my stupidity. I was sad that I hurt Our Lord; that I made him cry. No one knew of my sorrow. It was true; I was alone.
I looked at the cross in the lunchroom when I ate, and stared at the open wounds. I sat alone, but sometimes was accompanied by our principal-sister, whom I would question with my thoughts about God. I was known to be religious, and growing up I held a collection of medals given to me from religious family members. Everyone would say that I’d become a priest. For a while I wanted to pursue this calling. Since all things are supposedly equal, or ideally meant to be, I assumed everyone else shared in my love. I never considered myself to be different inside, yet due to the mistakes so many people seemed to keep making, I sometimes questioned if they really felt it the way I did. I never questioned anyone because the world always knew more than me. I am always wrong, and it is my duty to catch up to their standards.
As a child, adults seemed to be fond of me. I thought I was such a charmer, and would secretly plan out how I’d behave in given situations. My attitude was determined by my environment. My day would be focused on being good because I thought it would make them happy; I thought it would make them love me more. I wanted to be in their favor. It was important for me because attention from others would prove that I was cared about and I was willing to make it work. I was competing with my stupidity, my naïve self, versus the inner me.
In the second grade, during the crowning of Mary on May’s eve, the mass celebrated to crown the Virgin as the Mother of God, the entire elementary school held a practice mass so the angelic sixth graders could conform to an appropriate performance to host this miraculous event. When the statue was to be crowned everyone was instructed to have their eyes closed and heads bowed in reverence to our lady. I closed my eyes, but wanted to see my mother crowned in her glory. I was deviant, and I looked up. Everyone’s eyes were closed on schedule; no one was awake. Even the girl crowning Mary held her eyes shut. I watched in anticipation. Right before the crown touched, I saw the statue’s head move, bowing in grace, affirming her status as queen. The divine has its ways of telling us stuff. I could never speak of such things. My eyes were open and that was all that mattered. I was always alone.
I had grown attached to a bronze medal that was connected to a bronze chain. One day I was playing with it in class and had it taken from me. I knew that I was wrong. A boy by the name of Nick, whom I attended preschool with, was known for getting in trouble. He didn’t seem to be fazed by the adults’ punishments. His parents were divorced, and I was told that his troublesome nature was due to that factor. He stayed over at my house a few times. Once we went exploring around the neighborhood and he tore a hole in his pants when crossing a fence. We were both worried that his dad would be angry about the tear. When his dad arrived, he was so happy to hear from my mother that Nick was well behaved, the rip wasn’t even an issue. We held a fondness for each other, and watched out for one another. Although we were different, he had the reputation of being bad, and I was known as a brownnoser. Nick sympathized in my loss of my medal, and when the teacher had left the room, he stole it off of her desk and returned it to my hand at the end of the day. He risked an added punishment in an act I would never have had the courage to do myself. He did this for me and my love of that medal. Thankful, yet cautious, I continued to wear it, but tucked it closely inside my shirt instead of flaunting my love the way I use to.
The Lenten season had begun and we were getting close to Valentine’s Day. One night my sister came home with the news that her teacher had recently lost a medal, advising her students that if they found it to return it to her. I knew too well how precious these things could be to us, and so I asked Marlo to deliver my medal to Sister T. The following day, on my way to music class, Sister T pulled me from the line. She thanked me for my gift and wanted to give in return, offering me some chocolate. I didn’t want her gratitude, and felt in-genuine that she was thanking me. I lied to her and said I gave up candy for Lent. Instead she gave me a circular sticker, no bigger than a centimeter. By the end of the day it was gone; I lost it.
The fourth grade was my last year in private school. It was my hardest year. Sister St. Roger was the first teacher that didn’t like me. She was the first teacher I couldn’t charm. I hated her, or so I would say. Details were very important to her. The person on your right would check your notebook for incorrect homework answers. When finished, the four or five person desk blocks would mark incorrect answers with an x and then pass the notebook back. I had Joanna’s notebook. Joanna’s mother was one of the first grade teachers. She was the youngest in the class, and considered a year ahead for her age. She only had one problem wrong and I marked it accordingly. When I returned her notebook her hand was raised immediately. “Sister St. Roger. Michael marked number ten wrong in my notebook.”
“Well she got it wrong,” I said in self-defense.
Sister replied, “Well she answered it correctly when we were checking it during class. So Joanna you can take his notebook and mark his wrong and yours correct.”
I felt so foolish. I should have known she had it correct all along. I wasn’t listening to the kids who were reciting the answers I was too focused on waiting for the next answer to be announced. Although my notebook’s answer matched the teacher’s response, a large red x confirmed my ignorance. When doing class work, we were each called to the board, usually once a day, sometimes asked to bring our books along. I was called up with the first group of kids. Wanting to come prepared I brought my book along, but I was the only one. “Michael, I did not tell you to bring your book with you. You need to learn how to pay attention. Now sit down.” In her grade book that day I received a check minus. My report cards read that I had discipline problems. My desk was moved from the desk block and attached to Sister’s so that she could keep an eye on me. Both my mother and Sister St. Roger decided to monitor my behavior even closer. My mother bought a pack of index cards and wrote down each date of a five-day week, starting from the current date to the end of the school year. At the end of each day I would retrieve the current card from the closet and bring it to sister where we would discuss if my behavior for the day was Excellent, Good, Fair, or Poor. Sister would look at me and ask how I felt my behavior was for the day. I never had the guts to say I was excellent. I usually suggested a comment that was one less than what I deserved. There was probably something wrong I did that I couldn’t see; I could never be satisfied with an “Excellent” unless Sister would have suggested it, but even then I was never sure. No one had taken the time to confirm these thoughts, so I could never know the truth. I was always alone.
I looked at the cross in the lunchroom when I ate, and stared at the open wounds. I sat alone, but sometimes was accompanied by our principal-sister, whom I would question with my thoughts about God. I was known to be religious, and growing up I held a collection of medals given to me from religious family members. Everyone would say that I’d become a priest. For a while I wanted to pursue this calling. Since all things are supposedly equal, or ideally meant to be, I assumed everyone else shared in my love. I never considered myself to be different inside, yet due to the mistakes so many people seemed to keep making, I sometimes questioned if they really felt it the way I did. I never questioned anyone because the world always knew more than me. I am always wrong, and it is my duty to catch up to their standards.
As a child, adults seemed to be fond of me. I thought I was such a charmer, and would secretly plan out how I’d behave in given situations. My attitude was determined by my environment. My day would be focused on being good because I thought it would make them happy; I thought it would make them love me more. I wanted to be in their favor. It was important for me because attention from others would prove that I was cared about and I was willing to make it work. I was competing with my stupidity, my naïve self, versus the inner me.
In the second grade, during the crowning of Mary on May’s eve, the mass celebrated to crown the Virgin as the Mother of God, the entire elementary school held a practice mass so the angelic sixth graders could conform to an appropriate performance to host this miraculous event. When the statue was to be crowned everyone was instructed to have their eyes closed and heads bowed in reverence to our lady. I closed my eyes, but wanted to see my mother crowned in her glory. I was deviant, and I looked up. Everyone’s eyes were closed on schedule; no one was awake. Even the girl crowning Mary held her eyes shut. I watched in anticipation. Right before the crown touched, I saw the statue’s head move, bowing in grace, affirming her status as queen. The divine has its ways of telling us stuff. I could never speak of such things. My eyes were open and that was all that mattered. I was always alone.
I had grown attached to a bronze medal that was connected to a bronze chain. One day I was playing with it in class and had it taken from me. I knew that I was wrong. A boy by the name of Nick, whom I attended preschool with, was known for getting in trouble. He didn’t seem to be fazed by the adults’ punishments. His parents were divorced, and I was told that his troublesome nature was due to that factor. He stayed over at my house a few times. Once we went exploring around the neighborhood and he tore a hole in his pants when crossing a fence. We were both worried that his dad would be angry about the tear. When his dad arrived, he was so happy to hear from my mother that Nick was well behaved, the rip wasn’t even an issue. We held a fondness for each other, and watched out for one another. Although we were different, he had the reputation of being bad, and I was known as a brownnoser. Nick sympathized in my loss of my medal, and when the teacher had left the room, he stole it off of her desk and returned it to my hand at the end of the day. He risked an added punishment in an act I would never have had the courage to do myself. He did this for me and my love of that medal. Thankful, yet cautious, I continued to wear it, but tucked it closely inside my shirt instead of flaunting my love the way I use to.
The Lenten season had begun and we were getting close to Valentine’s Day. One night my sister came home with the news that her teacher had recently lost a medal, advising her students that if they found it to return it to her. I knew too well how precious these things could be to us, and so I asked Marlo to deliver my medal to Sister T. The following day, on my way to music class, Sister T pulled me from the line. She thanked me for my gift and wanted to give in return, offering me some chocolate. I didn’t want her gratitude, and felt in-genuine that she was thanking me. I lied to her and said I gave up candy for Lent. Instead she gave me a circular sticker, no bigger than a centimeter. By the end of the day it was gone; I lost it.
The fourth grade was my last year in private school. It was my hardest year. Sister St. Roger was the first teacher that didn’t like me. She was the first teacher I couldn’t charm. I hated her, or so I would say. Details were very important to her. The person on your right would check your notebook for incorrect homework answers. When finished, the four or five person desk blocks would mark incorrect answers with an x and then pass the notebook back. I had Joanna’s notebook. Joanna’s mother was one of the first grade teachers. She was the youngest in the class, and considered a year ahead for her age. She only had one problem wrong and I marked it accordingly. When I returned her notebook her hand was raised immediately. “Sister St. Roger. Michael marked number ten wrong in my notebook.”
“Well she got it wrong,” I said in self-defense.
Sister replied, “Well she answered it correctly when we were checking it during class. So Joanna you can take his notebook and mark his wrong and yours correct.”
I felt so foolish. I should have known she had it correct all along. I wasn’t listening to the kids who were reciting the answers I was too focused on waiting for the next answer to be announced. Although my notebook’s answer matched the teacher’s response, a large red x confirmed my ignorance. When doing class work, we were each called to the board, usually once a day, sometimes asked to bring our books along. I was called up with the first group of kids. Wanting to come prepared I brought my book along, but I was the only one. “Michael, I did not tell you to bring your book with you. You need to learn how to pay attention. Now sit down.” In her grade book that day I received a check minus. My report cards read that I had discipline problems. My desk was moved from the desk block and attached to Sister’s so that she could keep an eye on me. Both my mother and Sister St. Roger decided to monitor my behavior even closer. My mother bought a pack of index cards and wrote down each date of a five-day week, starting from the current date to the end of the school year. At the end of each day I would retrieve the current card from the closet and bring it to sister where we would discuss if my behavior for the day was Excellent, Good, Fair, or Poor. Sister would look at me and ask how I felt my behavior was for the day. I never had the guts to say I was excellent. I usually suggested a comment that was one less than what I deserved. There was probably something wrong I did that I couldn’t see; I could never be satisfied with an “Excellent” unless Sister would have suggested it, but even then I was never sure. No one had taken the time to confirm these thoughts, so I could never know the truth. I was always alone.
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