I remember the first time someone put a name to it—to this way that I am. It was the ‘80s, and packs of teenaged girls roamed Morristown High swathed in mousse and Love’s Baby Soft. “Hey, Eyeballs!” Cherisse called out from the center of one of these packs. “I saw you in a movie last night. It was Ally Sheedy in The Breakfast Club, she’s goofy like you.”
For those of you who don’t have a photographic memory of useless information: She’s the one who shook dandruff out of her hair, whose lunch was a Pixie Sticks/Cap’n Crunch sandwich. Hm. Thanks, Cherisse.
I’d been called out in one way or another since first grade—how I looked, how I acted. For a long time, I thought being bullied had made me different. That I had developed my sense of humor and my ability to charm my way out of trouble as a defense mechanism.
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