the class of 1975

That boy. Remember him? The weird one, with the funny, dry, and unkempt hair. The odd guy with the strange clothes, out of place and out of line was he. So very unique yet so very not so too.

He heard you. When you snickered as he walked past. He heard you. When you laughed, right out loud. He heard you. When you told him with your eyes, your movements, your derision, and your exclusions, he heard you.

He felt your eyes upon him as he walked into the crowded cafeteria each day, all alone, searching for a face, any face, that would welcome him. He saw you turn away with a grin upon your perfect featured faces, even as he tried to melt into the wall that was his only friend. He didn't miss the quick movement that was the empty chair, moved so that he would not, perhaps, sit near you. Even as he sat at the long, long table by himself he could smell your fear of him, could see the hair on your neck raise, and feel your disinterest, your disgust.

Alone he ate and then wandered about, lost and afraid, searching for a place, any place where he could escape his aloneness. He could not find it and occasional overtures for acceptance were met with disdainful rebuffs and scornful dismissals. Waiting, yearning for the sound of that shrill bell did he. Each day, the same, over and over again, waiting for that ring to free him. At least, there, behind the desk he could hide.

He was the one that walked into the crowded stadium and dared not glance into the rustling crowd above him. He knew no one welcomed him there and that no friendly faces waited for him. Why did he go? He didn't know but longed for them to reach out, just one, and tell him that he was not so bad. He cried to them for acceptance, just a crumb that they brushed from the table, but they gave none. Invisible was he, unless needed for entertainment.

That boy was the one that rode the carousel all alone on Senior Day, sat by himself on the bus and at the restaurant afterwards. Yes, he knew all the words. Freak. Loser. Nobody. Strange. Different. Not quite up to par. Not up to anything. He deserved what he got, or didn't get, didn't he? People like them always deserved what they got, didn't they? He heard that too.

Guess what? He survived. He lived and discovered that, after you, the world was not just for you, the porcelain beauties that line every shelf in every small town. You were nothing more than a nightmare from which he awakened and knows that now, all these years later, that you remain on those same shelves, chipped and dusty. He finally found that you were the ones that lost, you were the ones that could have been enriched, by him, if only you had tried. Now, he stands tall in his world and fears no more. The sugarbaker creation looked back upon those years and could, in her mind then, find laughter and sweetness and eventually, forgiveness for you. He can find none. For what you were was not pure youth or fanciful indiscretions by those who did not know better. No, contemptible actions of past days are not brushed away so easily, nor forgotten, nor forgiven.

Still, he ponders what could have been. If only things had been different. If only you had tried, just once.