Trouble on the playground

I used to spend my recess time in elementary school sitting cross-legged facing a brick wall.

Now, before you get worried puppy eyes thinking I was unfairly being punished for a confusion in a milk-stealing cafeteria investigation, I’m here to explain that the truth of this situation is actually much worse.

Other than Paul, the fourth grader who refused to wear pants to school (a Shorts Boy YEAR ROUND in our freezing tundra) and the Very Sweet School Nurse, I had no real friends in elementary school.  

So, on any given day in which my teachers deemed it too cold for Paul to go outside in his shorts for recess, I was left alone.  

Friendless, yes, but ever-the-creative.

I developed an interesting pass time, and I’d like for you to go with me and imagine what your reaction would be as an adult witnessing the following scene.

Let me paint the picture.  

Little Katie Beahen was born legally blind in her right eye.  

The treatment for this is relatively-simple.  

An eyepatch.

I was six. With a full-on eyepatch.

I, also, due to a childhood accident that involved my curiosity for exploration and a set of steep stairs, was left  with a shattered top jaw, and therefore front teeth that wouldn’t properly grow in until my family could afford to fix them in 7th grade. 

So with the eyepatch, go ahead and layer in the full-on lisp.

WIth this facial set up, I, for some ungodly reason, insisted on having long hair.  

Straggly, 

Tangled, 

Crooked-Bang Adorned, 

Brown Hair 

Down to my Butt.  

Long enough to sit on.  

Which I did.

At this young, socially-vulnerable age I also had prescription deodorant for my B.O.

These are facts, ladies and gentlemen.  

Unfathomable facts.

Living my days without friendship led to finding friends in the theatre. And by that, I mean the cast recordings of various Broadway shows.  My parents had a CD collection that held beautiful gems such as Les Mis where I could imagine myself as the tough, beautiful Eponine. Phantom of the Opera, where I learned early I wasn’t a soprano. Ragtime, where I spent hours directing the epic opening number in my bedroom.  And, finally, THE MUSIC MAN.

I obsessed over the confidence of the traveling salesman, Harold Hill, and would listen to the song “Trouble” on repeat until the lyrics were locked in.  Memorized with such arduousness, the wordy tune lived in me with ease.

And, it became a tune I’d use to pass lonely times.

Like recess.

So, you’re with me, yes? 

It’s a cold, biting winter day in Ramsey, Minnesota.  Paul is kept inside because of the whole shorts situation, and I’m sent out to face familiar crowds of judgmental children who would sooner set their own hair on fire than be caught playing with The Long-Haired, Eye-Patch Wearing, Smelly, Lisp Girl.

I knew better than to ask to join a game of foursquare. (Yes, the Tundra Children of the North play foursquare year-round.)

So, instead, I would wander the recess grounds gathering arms full of snow to bring back to the brick wall of our school.  

Once I had a sufficient pile, I’d plop down and sit cross-legged using my pile of snow as my paint and the brick wall as my canvas.

My hands floated loosely inside my father’s old, large chopper mittens as I’d grab clumps of snow to press into the wall as a sort of clay.

Clump after clump the snow would start to create pictures on the side of our school’s wall. 

Elaborate and Beautiful? No, ma’am.

A Smiley Face.

A House.

A Poorly-Proportioned Horse?

I was no artist.  Neither on paper, nor on a brick wall.

So, there I sat, creating mediocre-at-best art out of snow on the wall of my elementary school WHILE I SANG TROUBLE FROM THE MUSIC MAN TO MYSELF.

“I consider that the hours I spend with a cue in my hand are golden.  

Help you cultivate horse sense with a cool head and a keen eye.

Did you ever take and try to find and iron-clad leave for yourself

From a three-rail billiard shot?”

Can you imagine?

It’s ok to laugh.

Ladies and gentlemen, I tell you this story not to garner sympathy. I stand in front of you fully-formed, relatively successful in my craft, adored by a beautiful husband, and supported by a group of friends who swear they would have still chosen me as a friend back then.

We are defined in these moments.  

Pushed when we are excluded,

To discover what truly brings us joy.

No influence driven by popularity.

It was pure. 

Remarkably Unlonely.

ARTISTIC (she says with a wink.)

I think I needed to be excluded to find myself.

I was never going to be great at foursquare.

Anymore so than I was ever going to be truly-accepted by a bunch of kids who couldn’t see past my oddities.

I’m ok.

I still draw poorly-proportioned horses, and I still know all of the words to Trouble.

And Paul wears pants now and is a doctor.