Being Me

The Echo 7

Being Me

Some people think uniqueness is great. Some people think it makes you special, but deep inside it hurts. You do not feel it at frst; you think your uniqueness makes you different and better from the rest. However in my opinion, people can tear down this newfound confdence and trust too quickly: it takes forever to build but only a second to tear down. I have seen happiness and grace because of my abnormalities, but I have also seen bullying and hate, all because of me. My name is logan and I was born with unnatural hair that is silvery white. I do not know how or why, but somehow I was. It does not seem to have affected me physically but emotionally is another story. My white hair is the frst thing people see, the frst thing that they notice. Some think I am just another weird teenager who dyed their hair. “Teenagers,” they scoff with a downcast look of shame pretending they never saw me, and if they do remember me it will only be to tell others all about it. However most have come to ask the question, the one i always dread. They ask quickly and try to say it nicely, but I already know what they’re going to ask, so I just play along. “Did you bleach your hair or color it?” “No,” I explain, “it’s natural.” Some stare back in disbelief, others leave because they don’t understand my predicament. But the worst ones are those with insults: from skunk to Harry Potter, I’ve heard them all. Then there’s the worst one, the one thing I hate most of all. They laugh and walk away looking at the ugly skunk. I have heard it all, nothing matters anymore, my weak insides can’t take much more, Who said, “sticks and stones may break my bones but words will never hurt me”, They’re wrong wait and see, just take a day in the life of me,Your bones will break and your heart will fail, all because of others’ words. My dad says shoot back with a smart response about why my hair’s affray, like, if I told you I’d have to kill you, or, I’m part yeti. Or in my mom’s case, they’re my wisdom streaks. But overall it doesn’t matter. The bullying will never stop; my white hair is a bother. Being made fun of is no fun, so why does it always happen to me? Why am I forced to go through this? What great God has put me through this? How am I supposed to get through this? But suddenly, I think about all the times it’s helped me out. From being talked to all at once, at Wal-Mart, school, and other places. Sometimes I have made new friends all because of a little pigment. From chosen one to wise young elder, all these compliments just for me. However the question that has been egging me on, the only one i have to go on: why have I refused to dye it? There’s no reason why I can’t, or even a reason why I shouldn’t. I could do it. No more insults, no more crying, no more attention about my head. But the main reason why I don’t, the only reason why I can’t, is because it’s me. It represents who I am. I just wouldn’t be who I am today without it. Everyone gets insulted, but the question we must ask is whether or not we will change ourselves because of a few jerks’ opinions, or stay true to who we are and who we were meant to be.

[Nonfction] Logan Conrad