Bullies Called Him Pork Chop. He Took That Pain With Him And Then Cooked It Into This

Khrizal a écrit:
Ça m'a mis les larmes aux yeux...

To This Day by Shane Koyczan

When I was a kid, I used to think that pork chops and karate chops were the same thing.
I thought they were both pork chops.
And because my grandmother thought it was cute, and because they were my favorite, she let me keep doing it.
Not really a big deal.
Well one day, before I realized fat kids were not designed to climb trees, I fell out of a tree
And bruised the right side of my body.
I didn’t want to tell my grandmother about it because I was scared I would get in trouble for playing
somewhere I shouldn’t have been.
A few days later, the gym teacher noticed the bruise and I got sent to the principal’s office.
From there I was sent to another small room with a really nice lady who asked me all kinds of questions about
my life at home.
I saw no reason to lie.
As far as I was concerned, life was pretty good.
I told her whenever I’m sad my grandmother gives me karate chops!
This led to a full scale investigation, and I was removed from the house for three days until they finally
decided to ask how I got the bruises.
News of this silly little story quickly spread through the school and I earned my first nickname:
**PORK CHOP.**
To this day, I hate pork chops.
I’m not the only kid who grew up this way,
Surrounded by people who used to say that rhyme about sticks and stones.
As if broken bones hurt more than the names we got called,
And we got called them all,
So we grew up believing that no one would ever fall in love with us, that we’d be lonely, forever.
That we would never meet someone that would make us feel like the sun was something they built for us in
their tool shed.
So from broken heart strings bled the blues and we tried to empty ourselves
So we would feel nothing.
Don’t tell me that hurts less than a broken bone.
That an ingrown life is something surgeons can cut away, that there’s no way it to metastasize
It does.
She was eight years old.
Our first day of grade three, when she got called ugly,
We both got moved to the back of class so we would stop getting bombarded by spit balls
But the school halls were a battleground where we found ourselves outnumbered day after wretched day, we
used to stay inside for recess because outside was worse.
Outside, we’d have to rehearse running away, or learn to stay still like statues giving no clues we were there.
In grade five, they taped a sign to the front of her desk that read
**BEWARE OF DOG**
To this day, despite a loving husband, she doesn’t think she’s beautiful because of a birthmark that takes up a little less than half of her face.
Kids used to say she looks like a wrong answer that someone tried to erase, but couldn’t quite get the job done.
And I’ll never understand that she’s raising two kids whose definition of beauty begins with the word “Mom.”
Because they see her heart before they see her skin and she’s only ever been amazing.
He was a broken branch grafted onto a different family tree.
Adopted.
Not because his parents opted for a different destiny.
He was three when he became a mixed drink of one part left alone and two parts tragedy.
Started therapy in eighth grade,
Had a personality made up of tests and pills, lived like the uphills were mountains and the downhills were cliffs,
four fifths suicidal–a tidal wave of anti depressants and an adolescence being called “Popper”.
One part cause of the pills, 99 parts because of the cruelty.
He tried to kill himself in grade ten when a kid who could still go home to mom and dad had the audacity to tell
him
”Get over it.”
As if depression is something that can be remedied by any of the contents found in the first aid kit.
To this day he is a stick of TNT lit from both ends–could describe to you in detail the way the sky bends and
the moments before it’s about to fall.
And despite an army of friends who will call him an inspiration he remains a conversation piece between people
who can’t understand sometimes being drug free, has less to do with addiction, and more to do with sanity.
We weren’t the only kids who grew up this way.
To this day, kids are still being called names.
The classics were:
“Hey stupid.”
“Hey spaz.”
Seems like every school has an arsenal of names getting updated every year,
And if a kid breaks into school and no one around chooses to hear it, do they make a sound?
Or are they just background noise to a soundtrack stuck on repeat
When people say things like
“Kids can be cruel!”
Every school was a big top circus tent and the picking order went from acrobats to lion tamers, from clowns
to carnies, all of these miles ahead of who we were.
We were freaks.
Lobster-claw boys and bearded ladies, Oddities juggling depression and loneliness
Playing solitaire, spin the bottle trying to kiss the wounded parts of ourselves and heal.
But at night, while the others slept, we kept walking the tightrope.
It was practice, and yeah some of us fell but I want to tell them that all of this, is just debris
Left over when we finally decide to smash all the things we thought we used to be
And if you can’t see anything beautiful about yourself, get a better mirror, look a little closer, stare a little
longer.
Because there’s something inside you that made you keep trying despite everyone who told you to quit.
You built a cast around your broken heart and signed it yourself
You signed it
“THEY WERE WRONG!”
Because maybe you didn’t belong to a group or a clique.
Maybe they decided to picked you last for basketball, or everything.
Maybe you used to bring bruises and broken teeth to show and tell but never told, because how can you hold
your ground if everyone around you wants to bury you beneath it?
You have to believe that they were wrong.
They have to be wrong.
Why else would we still be here?
We grew up learning to cheer on the underdog, because we see ourselves in them.
We stemmed from the root planted in the belief that we are not what we were called.
We are not an abandoned car stalled out left sitting empty on some highway.
And if in some way we are, don’t worry, we only got to walk and get gas.
We are graduating members of the class of
**We made it.**
Not the faded echoes of the voices crying out “Names will never hurt me.”
Of course they did.
But our lives will always ever continue to be a balancing act
That has less to do with pain,
And more to do with beauty.