In kindergarten, they called me “missionary.” Pulled me out of class to lay hands over the sick and helpless. To pray for the lost souls and the broken bodied. To pray for the feeble-minded and the kids who didn’t get enough love or got too much. To somehow save the ones who had fallen.

In fourth grade, they called me friendly. Pulled me aside and put me in charge of the new kids. Asked me to extend a helping hand to those too scared to reach out for one. To give them my time and attention and make them feel important. Too be selfless for the selfish.

In sixth grade, they called me the smart one. Kept me after class to praise my work and give encouragement. Pleaded with me to tutor the kids who just didn’t get it even though that same kid pushed me in the halls. Asked me to sacrifice my safety for a couple of A’s and a smiling boss. To hide my pain for their glory.

In seventh grade, they called me teacher’s pet. Rolled their eyes anytime I shouted out the correct answer. Whispered taunts as I treated the teacher as a human being and asked about her day. Teachers praised my articulate ways while others laughed. Only nice when I allowed them to copy off my work.

In eighth grade, they called me depressed. Took me to a counselor and started to pray. Questions asked and memories better left forgotten reared their head. Razor blades, nicotine and alcohol found its way into my body to ease the mental pain. Pills given to keep me sane. The pretender wore my body while the real me was slowly dying on the inside all-alone.

In ninth grade, they called me weird. Questioned why I suddenly faded from my peers and into the corners of the classroom. Some gave me kindness while others simply allowed me to fade into the wall and treated me as if I weren’t there. Frustration grew and along with it, a disdain for those in my age group. Books became my companions and people my enemy.

In tenth grade, they called me controversy. Eyes scanned over my face with recognition and eyes averted. Pens flew past my head and the legs of strangers made me stumble. Friends stopped texting and the words on the computer screen became my escape. Some pulled me aside, usually faculty members, to congratulate and encourage me. Each column brought a new reaction, but a reaction non-the less.  Tears shed in the night while cocky smiles radiated in the halls. I realized I was alone and no better than the average person. Pride took a turn and friends returned with open arms. Faith and trust once destroyed started to return. And real smiles found their way to my face again.

In eleventh grade, I want to be back to the missionary. I want to be smart and a teacher’s pet. I want to be weird even if that comes with depression and controversy. I want to be who I am. Jazzmyn.