Poets logo

Spoken Word #2

The Looks

By Summer OrbanPublished 7 years ago 3 min read
Like
Photo By Christopher Gawel

I remember that day clearly.

The night before I slept in the nurses' office so I could stay later on to see the concert. Mom was gonna bring me some clothes later, but in the meantime, I wore what the nurse gave me; black shorts and a red hoodie over a green tee.

I loosely trailed behind the guys when we were heading to morning serves.

As more people began to line with their team colors, I decided to make my move.

I walked over to him, nervous system buzzing (as usual), and handed my sketchbook/diary to him (making no eye contact).

He read the note on front and did as accordingly; he and the guy in black retreated to a less populated setting (Maybe the bathroom?), assumingly ten minutes later the guy in black passed it to his sister (who as far as I could tell, wasn't glossing over any pages).

Eventually, we entered the gym and made way to our sections. Even though I was on the green team and he was red, I followed him and sat directly behind his seat (the back row).

His team won something and I patted him on the back as to say congrats. He turned around and did something that smacked the smile right off my face and knocked the air out of my lungs...

He didn't give me—rather shot me—just a look, but the look.

The look lots of parents and authoritative figures give us.

Looks of disappointment, disapproval, disrespect...

I'm sure you didn't mean to hurt me, you were probably confused as to why I was continuously following you—or frustrated because you couldn't shake me off your trail. Whatever the case, if you're both confused and frustrated while reading this, allow me to explain...

*****

What used to happen was something like this; whenever mom would make me go on neighborhood walks, she'd make an effort to speed walk, leaving me to chase after her or face coughing in her dust. After a while, I made the choice to walk before her—to casually stroll for a brief minute or two and take in all that God has created, until the moment evaporates as she passes me up seconds later.

As long as I can remember, I've always been coughing in everyone else's dust, choking others' secret critiques and snide comments.

Too immature.

Too mature.

Too religious.

Too sac-religious.

Too fat.

Too tall.

Too old.

Too young.

Too slow.

Too much.

Not enough.

What's worse? Sometimes these remarks come from people who share our surname.

I'll stop yelling at you when you stop acting like this.

Why can't you just be like your other siblings?

I bet your friends wouldn't pull something like that.

You don't need help for your problem because you don't have one; pretend everything's fine and grow some thicker skin, don't tell this to anyone or they'll think you're imperfect.

Don't get me started on the Christian community.

Pray more.

Read the Bible.

Start fasting.

Take communion.

Pay more attention to the church.

Or if you have Autism; it's even worse.

Don't ask, don't tell.

Why can't you be normal?

Don't say that in public, don't you have a filter?

You'll never get a car.

You'll never graduate.

You'll never fall in love, you'll just fall on your face.

Everyone has a mirror, it reflects a persons' qualities and flaws. I tell it like it is, I don't put an emphasis on qualities or flaws, I acknowledge both of them and don't erase or crop them out.

But people don't like this, so they condemn anyone with that mindset.

I still hear their whispers cut short as I pass by them, replaced by deadly glares I try to avoid.

The Looks.

They're everywhere.

All the time.

No escape.

*****

Can I ask you something?

When you turned around, what did my expression tell you?

That I was scared? Sad? Shocked? Painted? All of them combined?

I don't want you to believe it's your fault because it's not. You didn't scare me, just a little bruised.

After she finished reading my sketchbook/diary, I never knew who she gave it to. I should probably find out because there's still pages to be filled and pictures to be drawn.

performance poetry
Like

About the Creator

Summer Orban

I have autism and like pizza... And I hugged a guy once.

"Let no one despise you for your youth, but set the believers an example in speech, in conduct, in love, in faith, in purity."

-1Timothy4:12

Reader insights

Be the first to share your insights about this piece.

How does it work?

Add your insights

Comments

There are no comments for this story

Be the first to respond and start the conversation.

Sign in to comment

    Find us on social media

    Miscellaneous links

    • Explore
    • Contact
    • Privacy Policy
    • Terms of Use
    • Support

    © 2024 Creatd, Inc. All Rights Reserved.