I used 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 favourite

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'd get in trouble

for playing somewhere that I shouldn't have been.

A few days later the gym teacher noticed the bruise

and I got sent to the principal's 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 three days...

until they finally decided to ask how I got the bruises.

News of this silly little story quickly spread through the school

and I earned my first nickname:

Pork Chop.

To this day...

I hate pork chops.

I'm not the only kid

who grew up this way.

Surrounded by people who used to say

that rhyme... about sticks and stones

As if broken bones hurt more than the names we got called,

and we got called them all.

So we grew up believing 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 in their tool shed.

So broken heart strings bled the blues

as we tried to empty ourselves

so we would feel nothing.

Don't tell me that hurts less than a broken bone.

That an ingrown life is something surgeons can cut away

That there's no way for it to metastasize It does.

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 by spit balls

But the school halls were a battleground

where we found ourselves outnumbered day after wretched day.

We used 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 read

"Beware of Dog."

To this day,

despite a loving husband,

She doesn't think she's beautiful

because of a birthmark

that takes up a little less than half of her face.

Kids used to say she looks like a wrong answer

that someone tried to erase

but couldn't quite get the job done.

And they'll never understand

that she's raising two kids

whose definition of beauty

begins with the word "Mom."

Because they see her heart

before they see her skin. That she's only ever always been amazing.

He was a broken branch

grafted onto a different family tree.

Adopted

but not because his parents opted for a different destiny.

He was three when he became a mixed drink

of one part left alone and two parts tragedy.

Started therapy in 8th grade.

Had a personality made up of tests and pills.

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

and ninety nine parts because of the cruelty.

He tried to kill himself in grade ten

when a kid who could still go home to mom and dad

had the audacity to tell him "get over it."

As if depression is something that can be remedied

by any of the contents found in a first aid kit.

To this day,

he is a stick of TNT lit from both ends,

could describe to you in detail the way

the sky bends

in the moments before it's about to fall

and despite an army of friends

who all call him an inspiration,

he remains a conversation piece between people

who can't understand

sometimes becoming drug free

has less to do with addiction

and more to do with sanity.

We weren't the only kids who grew up this way.

To this day

kids are still being called names.

The classics were

"Hey stupid"

"Hey spaz"

Seems like each school has an arsenal of names

getting updated every year

and if a kid breaks in a school

and no one around chooses to hear

do they 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 was 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 and bearded ladies

Oddities. Juggling depression and loneliness,

playing Solitaire, 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 the things we thought we used to be.

And if you can't see anything beautiful about yourself,

get a better mirror.

Look a little closer.

Stare a little longer.

Because there's something inside you

that made you keep trying despite everyone who told you to quit.

You built a cast around your broken heart

and signed it yourself. You signed it,

"they were wrong."

Because maybe you didn't belong to

a group or clique.

Maybe they decided to pick you last for basketball or everything.

Maybe you used to bring bruises and broken teeth

to show and tell but never told

because how can you hold your ground

if everyone around you wants to bury you beneath it?

You have to believe that they were wrong

They have to be wrong. Why else would we 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 were called

We are not abandoned cars stalled out and sitting empty on a highway.

And if in some way we 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 faded echoes of 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.