An introvert. The girl who sits alone, even at family parties, and reads a novel. In elementary school, I was that girl.
The paranoia frequently present in my past led me to believe that every giggle, snort, or chortle was directed at my actions.
My family had embraced my oddities, dubbing me “quirky, yet endearing”, but my fellow students failed to see the latter. Their ridicule was the basis of my nightmares, and I swore that they purposely visited my dreams.
In my 5th grade cross-dressing phase, I made the decision to go to school in full leprechaun attire on Saint Patrick’s Day. Staying up late hours the night before, I planned my outfit, fashioned my facial attributes, and constructed a routine.
A blur of four-leaf-clover green, I rushed throughout my house, readying my act, receiving compliments and suggestions, and even posing for photos. I strode out the front door with a nametag glad to be shouting: Top O’the Morning! My name is: Luckie the Leprekan!
In the car, my knees bounced up and down, and Saint Patty’s butterflies ricocheted around my ribcage. It was my first day as someone completely new.
I entered the school, confident that I would be greeted with warm welcomes, and Irish greetings. The doors to the fifth grade wing bore no resistance towards me, but so much could not be said for my peers.
Instantly, ridicule bombarded me. I was receiving not the cheerful giggles and congratulations as I did at home, but snickers and crass remarks. The grateful cheers of Erin Go Bragh were now turning into “Ava Go Home”.
The leering grin of my teacher made my false orange hair stand on end. I requested a bathroom pass, and my instructor, unbiased and understanding, handed it over.
“Don’t stay out too long…Lucky.”
I bolted from the class and into the sanctuary of the girls’ bathroom. My one chance of extroversion was taken, and as I peeled off my faux leprechaun beard, I swore to never blow cover again.