I’ve always been a little…..ehh….different.  Some people might call it creative.  Some people might call it…well….freaking weird.  I’ve heard weird more than creative, so we’ll go with that one.

I started early.  I’d come up with names for things that would send people into giggles.  I referred to all genitalia (from the age of 2 until about 14) as wingle-wangles.  To me, that is one of my word-inventions that actually makes sense.  Look at your stuff sometime, boys and girls.  Look at it and mouth the word wingle-wangle.  It’s a perfect fit.

When I was in first grade, there were two incidents that convinced me that I was a gem among clumps of dirt in my family.  I put together my very first rhyme.  I was so unbelievably proud of myself that I rushed into my house after school and announced to my parents excitedly that I had thought of a rhyme.  The fruit of my budding genius, the amazing depths of my talent was sure to astound my parents.

“What is the rhyme?”  My mother asked me.

I gave a brief pause for dramatic effect.

“Skippy dippy.”  I said.

Instead of looking at me in awe and adoration as I had expected, my parents burst into hysterical laughter.  I stood for a moment scowling at them and then went to my room muttering under my breath that they were poopy heads who didn’t respect my talents.

That same year in art class, I made my mother a refrigerator magnet for Mother’s Day.  It was in the shape of a heart and I inserted a short, lyrical phrase that to me was more of a beat poem.  It stated the love that I had for my mother and also showcased my immense talents.  It read, “Ri Ri I love you, Somer.”  (FYI, the “Ri” is pronounced like “rye”)

I brought that magnet home to my mother and proudly placed it in her hands.  She looked at it for a moment, looked at me, and then back at the magnet before asking, “What is reeree?”

Angered that she had taken the lyrical part of my poem and turned it into one ridiculous sounding word, I corrected her that it was “Rye rye” and that it was a poem.  She smiled at me and placed the magnet on the refrigerator and said, “Oh, ok.”

I stomped back to my room, making sure my denim Keds slammed into the floor smartly while muttering under my breath that nobody understood my immense talents.  I stopped sharing the works of my genius with my parents after that.  They were, after all, poopy heads.

When I hit about 5th grade, I was made familiar with Stephen King.  It was at that time that I convinced myself that I needed to grow up to become a successful female horror writer.  I mean, I could scare my little brother half to death, why couldn’t I scare and disturb my peers as well?  Sadly, I was never able to gather the inner strength needed to showcase my talents to my peers.  I secretly blamed my poopy head parents.

In the seventh grade, we were required to write weekly themes of fiction for English class.  The teacher liked to nurture creative writing and always made sure to pull me aside after class to let me know that my works were very “creative.”  All the while, my peers were telling me that I was weird and that I had bad hair.  My fevered brain laboring under my budding teenage angst secretly blamed my poopy head parents.

In high school, I took Honors English classes and really enjoyed the reading and writing encouraged there.  I was always in really good with my teachers and had a reborn sense of confidence in my abilities to spin a yarn.  I was nowhere near as confident as I was in those early years (thanks, again, to the poopy head parents), but I was starting to believe in myself again.

My Senior year of high school I entered a writing contest.  It was a voluntary writing contest given to all students in the county.  One winner would be chosen from all of the participants and the prize was little more than recognition and a certificate.  Really, I wanted to see if I could do it.  And I did.  Out of all of the kids in the county who participated, I won.  I gathered my certificate and handshake from the principal, took it home, and put it in the top left drawer of my desk.  I didn’t tell anybody about it.

When I applied for college, I took that certificate to the university councilor who was assigned to me, and it impressed her so much that she let me bypass two “pre” classes and gave me direct admission to the School of Journalism.  Well, that certificate and my G.P.A., but the councilor really was quite impressed with me.  I didn’t call her a poopy head.

In college I excelled in all my writing classes.  I hated writing Journalism, yet I was good at it.  What I still loved was the fiction writing that my English professors assigned.  I’d read them in front of my classes and my class mates would laugh at the funny scenario I’d written.  That made me feel so damned good.  I stopped calling my parents poopy heads.

Once the poopy head mentality towards my parents stopped, I began to understand myself a little better.  I’m smart, but no more so than anybody else.  I’m talented, but not on any sort of epic scale.  I’m funny, but nobody would pay money to hear me tell a joke.  I’m very “meh”, and the weird thing about that revelation is that I’m totally okay with it.  Had my immense talents as a child prodigy been nurtured more by my parents, I might have grown up thinking I was better than what I am.  I might have thought more of myself than I deserved.  In truth, those poopy heads laughing at my genius helped ground me, whether they realized it or not.  And every time one of them finds it necessary to remind me of the “skippy dippy” story, my resolve to not take myself too seriously is renewed.

And yes, I’m reminded of that fucking “skippy dippy” story at least once a month by one or the other.  Damn my genius!

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