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The Girl
My name is Morgan and I'm going to be 18 this year. I live in Portage, PA, a dismal drug town. I'm a vegetarian, animal lover, and an athlete. I play volleyball and run distance in track. Plan on attending community college for my general studies and attending Mount Aloysius to study Criminal Justice/Forensic Accounting and hopefully go into the FBI or CIA.
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My diary, my space, my rights. Don't like what you see? Feel free to hit that little X up there. Thanks.
moo
...written on 2005-12-08, @ 12:29 a.m.
Morgan Radcliffe
December 5, 2005
College English
Personal Narrative
“Cow! Mooooo!” Students sitting in the bleachers from the opposing school taunted me. Laughter began filtering through out the audience.
Those foul words floated through the air and reached my ears all too quickly and my face turned red with shame and pain. Embarrassment and distraction frightened me. Would I get my serve over? Would the students pick on me even more for missing it?
The referee blew her whistle and I threw the ball in the air and listened to it crack against my hand. My serve triumphantly floated over the net leading to a point for my volleyball team. I did not celebrate that point. Early celebration could lead to failure and failure could lead to more embarrassment.
As my next serve arced into the air, another string of words stabbed me in my heart. “Pig.” “Freak.” A sob found its way into my throat and I hit the ball only to have it bounce against the net, winning the game for the other team. I walked off the court, ignoring sympathy and reassurances from my teammates telling me to ignore the other teens who made fun of me. This was a matter I had to deal with alone as I had done for the last thirteen years of my life.
The bus ride home from the volleyball game was as loud as ever and yet I did not hear anyone. I gazed out the window at the star-filled sky wishing I could be someone other than myself. Someone beautiful, popular, skinny and not … different. If being “large” or “strange” proved to only breed hate, then why did I or anyone else have to suffer? I should convert to their standards. Starve myself until I am rake thin, buy all the fashionable clothes and shoes because the “cool” teenagers were, and act vile and snobby to other people I do not like; all just so I would not have to endure the endless torture from the same people who despised me because I was different.
My mind drifted back to a time … “Can I play with you?” My seven-year-old mind was hopeful and desired to be with the group playing tag. Yet, words fell upon deaf ears and I again was left to play by myself on the swing set watching the other children laugh and play. Even at a young age I always thought that there must have been something terribly wrong with the way I looked, acted and dressed to have to endure taunting and isolation. I played alone, ate alone, and went home alone to sit alone in my room. My parents never understood my bitterness. I was too proud to display any emotions of pain and misery in front of my parents and I had never liked to cry …
“Ha! She’s crying.” Brock laughed and pointed at me. “Fat cry baby, don’t wet your pants.” Brock threw a ball at me and turned back to his friends laughing and glancing back at me. I retreated to the corner of the recess yard and sat on the concrete wall biting my lip to keep from crying and stared off into space.
I was brought back to reality from a warm hand grasping my shoulder comfortingly. I turned my head to see my coach standing over me, worry spilling from her eyes. “Do you want to talk?” She asked. I stared at her for a moment, lost for words. I never talked about my problems or my emotions and I probably could not now, but I had this one chance, this once in a lifetime opportunity to break the dam that was my sorrow.
“I…” My voice trailed off. My throat constricted, and I did the only thing I could do to end my suffering. I broke down and cried. When that brief moment of relief was over, I felt free. I realized that I didn’t need to be anyone else but me. The people who’ve tried to ruin my life were heartless because they wanted to feel powerful and in control. And all these years, they’re mind tricks were actually working!
I looked over at my coach and laughed apologetically. She understood my tears and my laughter, patting me on my shoulder once more before she left to sit back down.
I realized after that, it was okay to cry and feel pain. I was not an automaton robot, I was human. I didn’t have to take any more abuse from people who could care less about me. I have a choice and I was ready for battle. People could stomp me into the ground but I knew that I was finally ready to fight back.