They Called Me Dumbo
They called me Dumbo. I remember kindergarten like it was a scary movie. The memory stays clear. Like a bad photo your mother puts on the wall for all to see. It was a blur of watching all the girls with the pretty locks of hair that circled around their shoulders. Blonde like wheat, little cute ringlets bouncing around their face like the ladies in the shampoo commercials. Cute button noses that turned bright pink in the frosty winters. And then came me. Definitely not blonde. The little girl with stupid ears and big hair. Bigger than my face, even. Bigger than the little blonde girls' entire heads. It ran in twenty different directions and refused to lie down for any brush. Sometimes Mama would try to run her brush through but I would cry and cry and cry in pain. It's no use trying to make it like the others', my heart yelled. No one would hear it. I couldn't hear it. It was too quiet. And now here I am, finally hearing it. And I still can't fix my hair. It still goes in the direction no one else's hair will go in. No one else's straight, blonde hair.