Peggy
I remember my first word being hasshin, which I must have picked up watching television at the children’s psychiatric ward, the place I stayed for want of anyone willing to raise me. It’s from Japanese anime, and means launch.
I imagine growing up for everyone else is a happy and innocent time, free of cares, full of wonder and exploration.
I had none of those things, however much I craved them as well as a real home of my very own, where people loved me for exactly what I was, willing to hold me close and comfort me in the morning.
Later, after I learned to speak and write, I grew up in foster care, never having more than a temporary place to stay, always having to be dutiful and obedient to the adults who made it clear I was only to be tolerated.
I liked having big breakfasts, big lunches, and big dinners at my foster homes because the doctors and nurses at the hospital I was raised in for a while said good food would make me big and strong. I would feel strong, for at least a while, until the bad feelings came back, then I craved comfort again. There wasn’t much comfort, other than my plushy I’d hug in bed or while watching TV. There was only food. I felt power and control when I cooked what I felt like making and ate it, so learning to cook came naturally to me.
By eleven I developed a flair for creating my favorite breakfast before running off to school: a mushroom and cheddar omelet with a touch of dill and Gorgonzola. I loved when things turned out right and I enjoyed the results. I consumed my mistakes from a sense of obligation to never waste food. So rather than become strong, I became only big, weighing one hundred eighty pounds.
I wasn’t good at running or climbing or the other athletics kids were expected to do in Phys-ed, and I was made fun of for that and worse. When I tried to get a tray from the school’s hot lunch serving line, a boy or a girl would bump me out of the line with a whispered, “Out of my way, Piggy!” I soon gave up and brought my own lunch.
Once a mean boy pushed his nose up with his fingers and made snorting sounds, but when I chose to eat alone other kids did not approach me. My favorite school subject was math. In face-to-face verbal communication, I’m useless. I’m better with writing. I wasn’t sure which was more boring or dreadful, actual school or the summers in-between. It seemed no teacher gave a damn about me, until the day that changed my life.
First period on my first day of seventh grade, was math. A man whose hair brushed the top of our classroom door tapped on its window, so our teacher, Ms. Webber, introduced him. “Peggy, Rufus, Perkins, Martin, Alan, Clark, and Beth, you’re being moved to a special math unit. This is Marc DuQueznay, your new instructor.”
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