Evolution of Indifference (2)

Chapter 1

Chapter 2: The Bald Black Woman


I knew I was special. I just knew it. Even as a child I knew the potential in me, but knowing that it was merely a potential insulted me. I hated it, I absolutely hated it. I hated that no one could see how special I was.

Tears.

You already know that my parent's divorce affectly me very little. It was external to me, and I didn't care -- it wasn't my issue. In fact, I began to bask in their trials because I could use it as an excuse to cry. Forever.

Realization.

You can cry a lot because of a divorce. Adults in school fed me attention, and fed me attention. I knew I was different, I knew I was special, and although all the glory was given me under the guise of "child of a now-single mom," attention was *still* given to me. I loved it.

In fact, I cried everyday. All day, even. And milked the issue so badly, I was given a guidance counselor.

Tears.

I didn't realize it, but all that crying was making me vulnerable. My guidance counselor was convinced that my parents' divorce was earth-shattering for me because I wouldn't look her in her face. We talked about my not being able to look at her during our sessions.

Tears.

I couldn't do it because I thought that she, with all her status, would look into my eyes and see the feeble little different boy-- she was trained to do it, after all. I was afraid she would find me out and tell my class, tell my teacher, tell my mom, tell my brother, tell my friends,
tell everyone. They would all find out if this bitch were to look into my eyes. Hang down your head, kid -- Hang it LOW.

We played Tic-Tac-Toe on a wooden board with brass sleeves. The X's and O's were brass as well. I stared at them the entire time, never taking my eyes off of the non-fleshy brass that could not see in my eyes the fact that I was lying, that I was indeed different.

But I thought the brass knew. I was convinced it knew. I would think to them, and they could hear. They knew. They knew I was "different." I grew to like that weekly hour of mindless Tic-Tac-Toe game after Tic-Tac-Toe game. The X's and O's and I could silently talk about real shit, and they couldn't open their big fat mouths, if for NO other reason than they simply didn't have mouths.

My counselor was a black woman. Bald, kinda. At least that's what I considered it then. I don't recall her name - don't ask why. It took me a while to get accustomed to her because of all the prejudices instilled in me as a younger kid, but because I was staring at the brassy letter on the table, the color of her skin blended away and the soothing murmurings of her vocal cords could sooth me.

At some point during the school year, it no longer mattered that I was the only 6th grader with a counselor (trust you me, that's a good excuse to cry too), it was not an issue that no one at home cared that I was in counselling (another tear jerker), none of it mattered.

The only thing that mattered to me was meeting that woman and hearing her voice every week, even if she *was* black. The color of her skin was no longer a threat to me -- it was a comfort now. Everything about her was a comfort. I talked, she listened. She told me I had
good things to say. She wanted to know about my week. I mattered to that bald, black woman.

She was teaching me a lot -- she had answers to each and everything I cried about. So, I would listen and know she was right. I was beginning to learn all sorts of ways to handle the things she thought were adversely affecting me, that made me cry.

At first I thought she was a fool for believing my reasons for crying (LADY! I'M FUCKING DIFFERENT) but then I decided to start filing her advice about things that weren't even issues with me in the back of my mind.

Oh and they were gonna be real; all those issues conjured up by the mind of a 10 year old would soon be realities in my life. And when they became real issues for me, I handled them well -- all because of that bald, black woman.

But at ten years old, she a fool to me -- she did nothing to tackle the real issue. There was no emotion in there -- she was a girl.

Tears.