Chapter 6: A Most Peculiar Girl

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— Full chapters will appear in the printed published book. —

Now that a new school year had begun, in a new town, I was about to have a new adventure. It was so exciting for me. I always loved going to school. Already, I could see that I learned quickly and that may have been one reason why I enjoyed school so much. It was also important that I felt normal, no different from anyone else in any unusual way, though I had no reasons to feel atypical in any way.

I understood that everyone was different and unique, but there was a certain commonality that helped people to fit in. I had never yet experienced being bullied or feeling left out. This could have happened to others around me, that I cannot say. If so, I had never noticed it. Some kids were more popular than others because they were prettier or had more friendly personalities. I was okay with myself and the way I was. I just enjoyed being with everyone. I played with everyone. I liked everyone. No one made any remarks about my last name either, that I was a Freak.

Here I was, seven years old and I still didn’t know that the Freak name had any particular meaning. To me, my last name was as normal as Smith or Jones. It was easy to spell, too. I had no reason to suspect that there was anything odd about the name Freak. I think I would have noticed if anyone had made fun of me because of it, even at that age.

This was as much as I knew. I was accepted, I got along with others, and I was happy. I always tried to be quiet, attentive, obedient and I always wanted to please my teachers.

This new school in Tadanac was not much bigger than the school in Eagle River. As far as class combinations, it was very similar. Grades one and two were together, grades three and four together, and grades five and six together. The large field was used for games, and the playground was equipped with swings, teeter-totters, and a merry-go-round. My brother Ray was in grade five, but I rarely saw him at school. Bruce and Doug were older and in higher grades, so went to schools somewhere else in the city.

Every week in grade two, we read a story in class and were told to draw a picture to highlight the main theme of the story. Our pictures were due to be handed in by Friday and the best five would be displayed on the bulletin board on Monday morning. All of us looked forward to this with anticipation. It was like winning an award.

Every Monday, one of the first things we all did as soon as we deposited our lunches and jackets in the cloak room was look to see whose pictures was displayed. Those classmates whose pictures were displayed always seemed to be so pleased with themselves. They always smiled and often the teacher complimented them.

Every week, I looked forward to Monday and hoped that my artwork would be on display. It would be such an honour for me. But week after week, month after month, I waited to see if my picture was displayed. It never was.

At the end of every week came the same ritual. I handed in my artwork, filled with hope, and every Monday, my hope was deflated. I wasn’t about to give up, however. Perhaps, if I examined the winning pictures more carefully, I could find clues as to why they stood out above the rest. I did not want to consider that the teacher might have been favouring some students over the others, and put up the pictures because she liked the child, not necessarily the picture. I wanted to know, what did I have to do to get my picture displayed?

Surprisingly, one Monday morning halfway through the school year, my picture was up! My own picture with my Freak name at the bottom. I marvelled at that. I stared at it in disbelief. It didn’t seem to me to be a special picture at all. Did my teacher put it up because she felt sorry for me? Maybe she wanted everyone to have a picture displayed at least once and, since I had never had that privilege, perhaps she decided it should be my turn, too.

Thinking back, the picture was actually somewhat freakish.

The previous week, we had been reading a story about pumpkins in the cellar. Truth was, I did not quite understand it. What was a cellar? I did not know that word. I was not even sure I knew how to pronounce it correctly. I did not want to ask because that would have shown my ignorance. I thought cellar must be another word for carriage. So, I drew a picture of a woman pushing a baby in a carriage piled high with pumpkins. Pumpkins in the carriage. Wasn’t that what the story was about? I reasoned that the woman had nowhere else to put the pumpkins, so she put them in her carriage with her baby. She might have needed a means to transport them to another place. A wheelbarrow would work for that purpose, but maybe all she had was a carriage.

Now that my drawing was displayed for all to see and admire, I was immensely proud of my accomplishment — one of the few special moments that I can recall from my grade two year. It proved that my work was as good as everyone else’s. Maybe the teacher liked me, too.

Quietly, I sat at my desk and beamed. That good feeling lasted all day and even through the week. I didn’t want the week to end when my picture would be returned to me, as I might never again get to have another piece of work displayed. It was the only one time in the whole year that my picture went up. If only I knew how to get another picture displayed. I wanted to know why she had selected my picture this time. What was the secret?

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Now that we had running water in our home, I brushed my teeth in the morning. Before that, I had never seen a toothbrush. I was not sure why my mother finally sent me to a dentist in BC. Perhaps we got dental coverage with my father’s new job and it was now possible to afford it. Perhaps the teachers noticed something about my teeth, and then informed my mother that I needed to see a dentist. In any case, it was time I went.

Several years of neglect had done their damage to my teeth. My mother accompanied me to my first visit. I had no idea what would happen. I climbed into the chair but I was suspicious immediately. What would he do with these metal tools? The dentist spent a long time examining my mouth. He explained things to my mom, who looked a bit dismayed, but I didn’t understand very much about what he was talking about. Maybe I wasn’t listening. I did understand one thing: I would be coming back every Saturday morning for several weeks.

Each time I went, the dentist worked on one section of my mouth. The needles were so painful. The drilling was dreadful. Some teeth were filled and some were pulled. Every time, it took almost the whole morning and I didn’t get out of that dreaded office until around noon. Once the freezing subsided, my whole face ached, sometimes I found it difficult to eat until a few days later.

After the first time, I then knew what to expect, and I was very fearful and apprehensive. I tried not to think about it during the week by keeping my mind focused on other things, but when Friday came around, I knew what was in store for me and that it was imminent. It was so difficult for me to calm myself enough so I could get to sleep on Friday nights before one of these appointments.

I tried to think of a way to make it easier for me. So before I went to sleep on Friday night, I repeated over and over again to myself, “It won’t hurt, I’m not afraid.” It had a cadence to it, like six bars on a music scale. Very staccato, like “One, two, three. Four, five, six. It won’t hurt, I’m not afraid.” It did help me to comfort myself. By repeating it, like counting sheep, I could relax enough to get to sleep so I could face the next brutal day. I had invented my own personal meditative recantation to build up my courage. I knew if I could control my mind, I could face it better. As soon as I got up the next morning, I kept the chanting going so that I would not think about how much I would suffer. I told myself to just focus on the words: “It won’t hurt, I’m not afraid.” If I said it enough, it would have to be true. Or so I figured.

My mother took me to the dentist the first time, but after that, she sent me on my own. I was smart enough, I knew my way and could get there myself. The dentist clinic was in downtown Trail, so I had lots of time to talk to myself. All the way there, I kept repeating my chant. “It won’t hurt, I’m not afraid.” As soon as I sat in the dentist’s chair and throughout the whole procedure, I clenched the armrests with all my strength. I wondered if there was not an easier way for a child to go through this. Some sleeping aid or pain medication would have helped to relieve my anxiety.

I had several more of these dentist visits until my whole mouth was fixed. One of the best days of my life was when the last visit was done and I knew that I didn’t have to go back. Glory days were here.

To this day, I become very stressed when I make an appointment with a dentist. Even as an adult, I’m not able to control my anxiety in an effective way. I begin to sense the fear and trepidation a week before the appointment, and these feelings become even stronger by the time I sit in the dentist’s clinic. By that point, my hands shake and my palms start to sweat, my grip tightens on the armrests. Even though I’ve never been able to truly convince myself, I still recant the words in my head as I sit and wait. “It won’t hurt, I’m not afraid.” Unfortunately, these words don’t seem to calm me as much as they used to.

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Our eyesight was tested at school and that’s when I found out I needed glasses. I was leery and nervous when I entered the optometrist’s office. What would he do to hurt me? I was so relieved when I finally realized I wouldn’t have any pain inflicted upon me. All I had to do was answer questions while I looked at a chart. The optometrist covered one eye at a time with something that looked like a big flat spoon.

A girl named Lynn was one of the most popular girls in my class and she had pink cat-like glasses with sparkles. When I was asked to pick the frames for my new glasses, I picked the same ones. I was now feeling quite excited about my new accessory because I could be like Lynn. I wondered if she thought this was a compliment to her, or if she hated me for copying her. Since I had to wear glasses, I wanted them to be pretty and I wanted them to be just like the cutest, most popular girl in my class. I knew this didn’t make me as cute or as popular as her, but maybe this would help. I didn’t want to pick frames that were different. I wanted to fit in. Maybe I would look prettier wearing my new pink sparkly glasses.

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