The Mermaid's Child

I've always been a mermaid, born of the water, yet tied to the earth. I can passably mingle in any crowd, but there's scarcely anywhere I feel completely comfortable.

As an adult, I've (mostly) come to terms with this, even getting a mermaid tattoo a few years ago in an effort to embrace this facet of me. I've come to see it as a strength, this ability to adapt to a variety of situations, to befriend an assortment of interesting personalities, but this was not always so.

It's difficult growing up as the weird kid, looking in on a life you think you'd like to have but can't. I wanted those girls to like me, wanted to be one of them, wanted for just one day to be the center of attention in a positive way. It was not to be.

I never played sports in a school where girls' soccer was queen. I never cared for it and, because of an unlikely congenital knee defect, running was physically painful. I was a tomboy, theoretically a positive in a sport-centric culture. However, I also loved school, and spent my recesses and gym classes grading papers. Note: "Teacher's pet" is NOT a compliment.

They teased me mercilessly, calling me all manner of horrible names I cannot bear to recount. I was a sensitive child and they knew exactly how to provoke tears. I was beaten up once, but I wouldn't fight back, and that, at least, seemed to prevent routine physical harassment, having successfully taken the entertainment out of that pursuit.

I have carried these scars into adulthood.

My child is very much like me. He gets along best with adults, who appreciate and are not intimidated by his intelligence, and small children, who delight in his silliness. His peers, however, are quite another matter indeed. He is at the same time too sophisticated and too juvenile to relate. He is socially awkward, fearful and confused about how to approach the building of a friendship. He, too, is a mermaid, grasping at adulthood yet bound to childhood. It is the nature of his chronological age and of his pedigree. As my boyfriend says, "You can see where he gets it from."

I have, over the years, wondered why I had to endure the insults hurled at me, the indignation, and especially the isolation of being extraneous. My son is experiencing a childhood something like mine, teased and forsaken. He feels alienated, and he can't understand why. He longs to be a part, instead of apart.

Now I understand that every pockmark of my past was in fact essential preparation to guide this child through his own darkness and into the light, where he can bloom.

I hope to spend these scabs well.