When I was a kid I used to think that pork chops and karate chops were the same thing

I thought they were both pork chops

and because my grandmother thought it was cute and because they were my favorite

she let me keep doing it.

Not really a big deal.

One day, before I realized fat kids were not designed to climb trees...

I fell out of a tree and bruised the right side of my body.

I didn't want to tell my grandmother about it because I was scared I'd get in trouble for playing somewhere I shouldn't have been.

A few days later the gym teacher noticed the bruise and I got sent to the principals office.

From there I was sent to another small room with a REALLY nice lady who ask me all kinds of questions about my life at home.

I saw no reason to lie. As far as I was concerned,

life was pretty good

I told her,"whenever I am sad my grandmother gives me karate chops."

This led to a full scale investigation

and I was removed from the house for three days until they finally decided to ask how I got the bruises.

News of this silly little story quickly spread through the school and I earned my first nick name,

Pork Chop.

To this day.

I HATE pork chops.

I'm not the only kid who grew up this way

surrounded by people who used to say that rhyme

about sticks and stones... as if broken bones hurt more than the names we got called

and we got called them all.

So we grew up believing no one would ever fall in love with us.

That we'd be lonely forever.

that we'd never meet someone to make us feel like the sun was something they built for us in their tool shed.

So broken heart strings bled the blues as we tried to empty ourselves so we would feel nothing.

Don't tell me that hurts less than a broken bone,

that an ingrown life is something surgeons can cut away,

that there's no way for it to metastasize, it does.

She was 8 years old.

Our first day of grade three when she got called ugly

we both got moved to the back of class so we would stop getting bombarded by spit balls

but the school halls were battle grounds and we found ourselves out numbered day after wretched day

we used to stay inside for recess because outside was worse.

Outside we'd have to rehearse running away or learn to stay still like statues

giving no clues that we were there

in grade 5 they taped a sign in front of her desk

that read,"Beware of Dog."

To this day... despite a loving husband,

she doesn't think she's beautiful

because of a birth mark that takes up a little less than half her face

kids used to say she looks like a wrong answer

that someone tried to erase but couldn't quite get the job done

and they'll never understand that she's raising two kids whose DEFINITION OF BEAUTY begins with the word "Mom".

Because they see her heart before her skin.

Because she's only ever always been amazing.

He...

...was a broken branch grafted onto a different family tree,

adopted.

Not because his parents opted for a different destiny

he was three when he became a mixed drink of one part left alone

and two parts tragedy.

Started therapy in 8th grade.

Had a personality made up of tests and pills.

Lived like the uphills were mountains

and the down hills were cliffs.

Four-fifths suicidal,

a tidal wave of antidepressants

and an adolescences of being called "Popper"

one part because of the pills

ninety-nine parts because of the cruelty.

He tried to kill himself in grade 10

when a kid who could still go home to mom and dad

had the audacity to tell him "get over it"

As if depression is something that could be remedied by any of the contents found in a first aid kit.

To this day, he is a stick of TNT lit from both ends.

Could describe to you in detail the way the sky bends in the moments before it's about to fall

and despite an army of friends who all call him an inspiration

he remains a conversation piece between people who can't understand.

Sometimes being drug free has LESS to do with addiction and MORE to do with sanity.

We weren't the only kids who grew up this way,

to this day, kids are still being called names.

The classics were "hey stupid",

"hey spaz"

Seems like every school has an arsenal of names getting updated

every year.

And if a kid breaks in a school and no one around chooses to hear

do they make a sound?

Or are they just background noise from a sound track stuck on repeat

when people say things like, "kids can be cruel"?

Every school was a big top circus tent

and the pecking order went from acrobats to lion tamers

from clowns to carnies.

All of these miles ahead of who we were,

we were FREAKS.

Lobster clawed boys and bearded ladies,

oddities juggling depression and loneliness,

playing solitaire, spin the bottle....

trying to kiss the wounded parts of ourselves and heal.

But at night... while the others slept,

we kept walking the tight rope

it was practice and yeah, some of us fell.

But I wanted to tell them that all of this

is just debris,

leftover when we finally decide to smash all the things we thought we used to be.

And if you can't SEE anything beautiful about yourself

get a better MIRROR

look a little CLOSER

STARE a little longer

because there is something inside you that made you keep trying despite everyone who told you to quit.

You build a cast around your broken heart and signed it yourself.

You signed it "THEY WERE WRONG"

Cause maybe you didn't belong to a group or a clique,

maybe they decided to pick you last for basket ball or everything,

maybe you used to bring BRUISES and BROKEN TEETH

to show and tell but never told

because how can you hold your ground.

If everyone around you wants to bury you beneath it

you have to believe that THEY WERE WRONG.

they have to be wrong.

Why else would we still be here?

We grew up learning to cheer on the underdog

because we see OURSELVES in them.

We stem from the root planted in the belief that we are not what we were called

we are not abandoned cars stalled out and sitting empty on some highway;

and if in some way we are, don't worry.

we only got out to walk and get gas.

We are graduating members of the class of "WE MADE IT"

not the faded echoes of voices crying out, "Names will never hurt me."

Of course... they did...

But our lives will only ever always continue to be a balancing act

that has less to do with PAIN

and more to do with BEAUTY