how to save a life » lucaya

Circus

THURSDAY

4:05pm

Maya laid in her bed, watching netflix

"Hey Maya". Lucas came in her room "I brought you back some soup and medicine". Lucas set a grocery bag on her bed

"Thanks Lucas". Maya smiled "What would I do without you".

"Will you still be able to say you're speech tomorrow"? Lucas asked

"Yeah I think so". Maya's voice cracked "I think it was just something I ate, now all I need is sleep".

"Ok well, just call if you need anything". Lucas said leaving Maya's room

And before Maya knew it she was asleep

~~~

FRIDAY 9:26am

Maya stood backstage as Mr. Mathews gave his opening speech 

She peeked her head out of the curtains to see hundreds of people in the theatre

"And now I welcome Maya Hart, she will tell you what its like to be bullied and what its like in her shoes. Maybe by hearing this story, you'll understand how painful being bullied is. A pain that no one should go through". Mr. Mathews welcomed

Mr. Mathews walked off the stage and tapped Maya's shoulder, telling her to go on

She sighed and walked out to the stage and stopped in the middle, right in front of a podium

 She took a deep breathe "When I was a kid, I use 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. One day, before I realized fat kids are 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 my bruise and I got sent to the principals 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 3 days until they finally decided to ask me how I got the bruise. News of the silly little story quickly spread through out the school. And I earned my first nickname. Pork chop. I now hate pork chops. My grandmother died that summer. But I'm not gonna get into that. But I'm not the only kid who grew up this way. Surrounded by kids who use to say that rhyme, about sticks and stones. As if broken bones hurt more then 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'd never meet someone to make us feel like the sun was something they built for us inside their tool shed. So broken heart string bled the blues. As we tried to empty ourselves so we would feel nothing. Don't tell me that hurts less then a broken bone. That an ingrown life is something that surgeons can't cut away. That theres no way for it to metastasize. It does. Ella Ocker. She was eight years old. Our first day of grade three when she got called ugly. We both got moved to the back of the class so we would stop getting bombarded my spit balls. But the school halls were a battle ground where we found ourselves outnumbered. Day after wretched day we use 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 that we were there. In grade five, they taped a sign to her desk that said "Beware Of Dog".  She never thought she was beautiful because of a birthmark that took up a little less then half of her face. Kids use to say she looked like a wrong answer someone tried to erase but couldn't quite get the job done. Ella was beaten to death by her mother in grade seven. Joshua Clayton. 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 his parents died in a car crash. He started therapy in 8th grade. He had a personality made up of tests and pills. He lived like the uphills were mountains and the downhills were cliffs. Four fifths suicidal. A tidal wave of anti depressants and an adolescence of being called popper. One part because of the pills, ninety nine parts because of cruelty. He died of a drug overdose last summer. Sometimes being drug free, has less to do with addiction and more to do with sanity. You probably think my turn is coming huh? I'm not gonna lie, I tried to kill myself in 8th grade when a kid who could still go home to both mom and dad had the audacity to tell me "Get Over It". As if depressants is something that can be healed by any of the contents found in a first aid kit. We weren't the only kids who grew up this way. Kids everywhere are being called names. The classics are "Hey Stupid" and "Hey Spaz". It seems like every school had an arsenal of names being updated every year. And if a kid breaks in school and no one around chooses to hear, do they even make a sound? Are they just the background noise of a soundtrack stuck on repeat when people say things like kids can be cruel? Every school is a big top circus tent and the pecking order went from acrobats to lion tamers, from clowns to carnies. All of these were miles ahead of who we were. We were freaks. Lobster claw boys to bearded ladies. juggling depression and loneliness. Playing solitaire, and 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. Leftover when we finally decide to smash all things that we thought we use to be. You have to believe that there wrong. Because maybe you didn't belong to a group or click. Maybe they decided to pick you last for basketball or everything. Maybe you use to bring bruises and broken teeth to show and tell but never told. Because how can you hold you're ground when everyone wants to bury you beneath it. You have to believe that they are wrong. They have to be wrong. Why else would I still be here. We grew up learning to cheer on the underdog. Because we see ourselves in them. We stem from a root planted in the belief that we are not what we are called. We are not abandoned cars stalled out and sitting empty on some highway. And if in someway some of us are, don't worry. We only got out to walk and get gas. We are graduating members from the class of We Made It. Not the fading echoes of the voices crying out "names will never hurt me". Of course they did. But our lives will only ever always continue to be a balancing act. That has less to do with pain, and more to do with beauty". Maya finished her speech