By Elaine Cizma
I was one of the different ones. I was weird, strange and freaky. As a teen, these words are now a compliment, but in elementary school, they were words meant to put me in my place, to ostracize me from the group, to make me feel less human.
I was born and raised in Chicago through third grade. After that, my family settled down in suburban Crystal Lake, a type of city I now refer to as a "Wonder Bread Town" because, compared to Chicago, it had little to no diversity. The coolest thing to do -- for all ages -- was to ride a bike to McDonalds.
It was in that city where I dutifully completed grades four through eight, dragging through that first year with more angst than the average teen complains about.
The first moment everyone discovered I was not like them was when the class pulled out their snack on the first day of school: granola bars, apples, Cheez-its and puppy chow were some of the more popular choices.
My snack was a homemade baggie of veggie sushi: seaweed rolled slightly crooked around a scoop of sticky white rice embedded with thin slivers of cucumber and carrots.
I felt the others' eyeballs gouging out holes into the back of my head, because I preferred to sit closer to the teacher as she read to us while we munched. I sat very quietly, acutely aware that even on the first day, I was a singularity.
Throughout the year I would quietly sit as close to the teacher as I could get -- hoping that no one would dare do or say anything hurtful to me while the teacher was in such close proximity -- and nibble on wasabi peas, or a whole avocado with a baggie of salt I would sprinkle over it after slicing it open neatly with a spoon I had packed.
On the days I would bring blood oranges, everyone took to running around during recess calling me a witch or vampire.
Sometimes I would go into a rage and chase after some of them, almost wishing I were a monster so I could return all the pain they had inflicted on me.
It was unfortunate that doing so only provoked them more, because they were always more entertained at how futile my attempt at revenge seemed.
I eventually was secretly relieved on the days my grandmother would pack my lunch -- PB&J;, Trix yogurt and an apple. Easy. Simple. Normal.
I never wanted to be like them, but sometimes all I wished for was for them to accept me as I was.
At recess they soon grew frustrated with me. In the beginning they would tolerate me joining into games with them. My favorites were the chasing games, a jump rope game called Queen Bee, and four-square. I learned to excel at those games quickly, and when I started winning the most, they would simply refuse to let me play, or call ridiculous fouls on me.
They never tagged me in chasing games, shooed me away from Queen Bee, and cut me in the four-square lines.
I was always submissive to their taunts, with the exception of one time I stood up for myself when they called a foul in four-square to get me out of the "ace" spot. I felt hot tears sting my eyes as the entire row of people waiting in line started jeering and yelling at me to go jump in a lake or take a hike.
They ridiculed me when I stopped playing the games, and brought books to read instead. They simply could not leave me in peace.
Today, I'm overjoyed that those days are behind me, though I can still feel some of the effects.
Even through the beginning of my freshman year I had difficulty controlling my negative feelings, often crying about absurd things, and instinctively lowering my head when passing other people.
Now I can let insults and jokes aimed at me slide to the floor without acknowledgment.
From those elementary school years -- particularly the fourth grade -- I have learned to bond so much more quickly with the different ones, and embrace my funky side.
Only now I am afraid to hold out a bag of spiced sweet potato crisps and not have enough to share.
Elaine Cizma is a junior at Elk Rapids High School.
