Saturday's Storyteller: "You belong at that school like pineapple belongs on pizza. People may disagree, but they're wrong."
by Belinda Roddie
"You belong at that school like pineapple belongs on pizza. People may disagree, but they're wrong."
This is what my wife said to me at 12:55 in the afternoon today. She said it with a grin on her face, so proud of her original simile. Her beautiful blonde hair was tousled, her arms draped in a warm v-neck navy blue sweater.
"I thought of that because I'm wearing my pineapple pizza socks," she told me, extending her foot so I could see. They had been a gift from my mom, who was all too familiar with both my wife's adoration for the fruit as a topping and my complete and utter disdain for it.
I knew that I was ruminating; after all, my brain was wired to do it. I take meds, but external stimuli will always trigger the good old times in which I could not turn the nagging voice off. I had written a sonnet about this experience, typed up a ten word tale, even got introspective about it the previous night. It was frustrating that I could not let it go. Was I really going to have to rehash everything with my therapist on Monday evening? Yep. So it went.
It had been one student - one angry student who had most likely found reasons to hate me and saw me as a target within a system that had worked against them for years. And had they not decided to tell me that I did not belong, their words could have held weight. Instead, they struck where it hurt. They ignored my sexual orientation and my gender identity. And in a way, they couldn't practice what they claimed to preach. I felt bad for them. I wanted to talk with them. But I would never know their name.
The last word they had ever typed to me, within that anonymous survey about my English class: "Bye."
I sincerely hoped they would have a bright future.
The guilt was cloying at this point - a sweet taste stuck to the back of my tongue that refused to go away. After a while, my wife and I walked to Huckleberry's, a Southern comfort breakfast and lunch spot. I ate something savory, and I hoped it can strip the lingering nausea from my mouth. It didn't. No amount of delicious crab cake eggs benedict can sate the nervous demons.
I know I should let this go. I know I should. I've been talking about this way too fucking much. My friends are worried. I've been able to shrug off all other comments. So why does this one hurt so much?
Because it was anonymous? Because I failed someone? Because I am simply another cog in an oppressive machine? Because, God forbid, I'm imperfect and will constantly have to learn for the rest of my life?
Why should I trust those who support me and comfort me if they're the ones with all the privilege? Why talk with those who don't because it's not their bloody job to educate me?
Why the fuck am I making this all about me, anyway? Shouldn't you be ashamed of yourself, Roddie?
And thus, the spiral continues, like a staircase leading straight to my personal hell - where there is no music. No conversation. No booze. No cheese. No love. And worst of all, no pizza I would want to eat.
Am I destined to be controversial - pineapple on pizza? And was that something I even wanted to embrace?
Why couldn't I have been compared to an anchovy instead? That's not nearly as controversial!
This week's prompt was provided by Arden Roddie.
"You belong at that school like pineapple belongs on pizza. People may disagree, but they're wrong."
This is what my wife said to me at 12:55 in the afternoon today. She said it with a grin on her face, so proud of her original simile. Her beautiful blonde hair was tousled, her arms draped in a warm v-neck navy blue sweater.
"I thought of that because I'm wearing my pineapple pizza socks," she told me, extending her foot so I could see. They had been a gift from my mom, who was all too familiar with both my wife's adoration for the fruit as a topping and my complete and utter disdain for it.
I knew that I was ruminating; after all, my brain was wired to do it. I take meds, but external stimuli will always trigger the good old times in which I could not turn the nagging voice off. I had written a sonnet about this experience, typed up a ten word tale, even got introspective about it the previous night. It was frustrating that I could not let it go. Was I really going to have to rehash everything with my therapist on Monday evening? Yep. So it went.
It had been one student - one angry student who had most likely found reasons to hate me and saw me as a target within a system that had worked against them for years. And had they not decided to tell me that I did not belong, their words could have held weight. Instead, they struck where it hurt. They ignored my sexual orientation and my gender identity. And in a way, they couldn't practice what they claimed to preach. I felt bad for them. I wanted to talk with them. But I would never know their name.
The last word they had ever typed to me, within that anonymous survey about my English class: "Bye."
I sincerely hoped they would have a bright future.
The guilt was cloying at this point - a sweet taste stuck to the back of my tongue that refused to go away. After a while, my wife and I walked to Huckleberry's, a Southern comfort breakfast and lunch spot. I ate something savory, and I hoped it can strip the lingering nausea from my mouth. It didn't. No amount of delicious crab cake eggs benedict can sate the nervous demons.
I know I should let this go. I know I should. I've been talking about this way too fucking much. My friends are worried. I've been able to shrug off all other comments. So why does this one hurt so much?
Because it was anonymous? Because I failed someone? Because I am simply another cog in an oppressive machine? Because, God forbid, I'm imperfect and will constantly have to learn for the rest of my life?
Why should I trust those who support me and comfort me if they're the ones with all the privilege? Why talk with those who don't because it's not their bloody job to educate me?
Why the fuck am I making this all about me, anyway? Shouldn't you be ashamed of yourself, Roddie?
And thus, the spiral continues, like a staircase leading straight to my personal hell - where there is no music. No conversation. No booze. No cheese. No love. And worst of all, no pizza I would want to eat.
Am I destined to be controversial - pineapple on pizza? And was that something I even wanted to embrace?
Why couldn't I have been compared to an anchovy instead? That's not nearly as controversial!
This week's prompt was provided by Arden Roddie.
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