The Gift of Fire (6 page)

In the meantime, I was getting older, and some of the greatest challenges of my life were about to begin.

M
Y TWO OLDER BROTHERS WERE ENROLLED
at the local Christian school in our area, and my parents assumed that I’d follow in their footsteps. But when Mom and Dad talked to the administration, they were told it was impossible— the school board didn’t think the facility could accommodate my “special needs.” Out of ignorance, the board assumed that because I looked different from other kids, I must have some kind of learning disability or need extraordinary help.

My parents objected to this decision, and the Shriners even offered to send one of their ambassadors to the school to explain that I had no special requirements. Yet none of this made any difference. The board’s actions were stupid and mean and, I have to say, not very “Christian.” It was the first case of “official” discrimination I’d encountered because of the way I looked. My parents were so furious that they pulled one of my brothers out of that school in protest.

Mom and Dad ended up enrolling me in Terrytown Academy, a private school that accepted me with open arms. A Shriner ambassador had visited the facility before the school year and chatted with the staff about me, explaining that although my injuries made me appear different, I was a normal, happy kid who didn’t need or want any unique attention or assistance. He even passed around photographs of me to the teachers and administrators to ensure that no one would react in shock when meeting me in person. Everyone at Terrytown was well prepared for my arrival in kindergarten that September … everyone except my fellow students, that is, who did their best to make my life a living hell.

It was bad right from the start. At first the teachers kept watch to make sure the other kids were on their best behavior, but I could feel my classmates’ eyes on me when my back was turned. The energy they silently projected my way was so negative I felt it would suffocate me. It was the first time I sensed hatred, and after that first day at school, the idea of returning made me cringe. I didn’t tell my parents what was going on—I was embarrassed by how the kids felt about me, and I didn’t want Mom and Dad to see my shame. Instead, I bottled everything up inside and didn’t say a word about it to anybody.

On the second day of school, I dreaded getting out of bed and putting on my uniform. When my brothers and I met in our parents’ room for morning prayers, I prayed that something would happen to Terrytown Academy so I wouldn’t have to go. Alas, those negative prayers weren’t answered. So after breakfast I reluctantly climbed in the passenger seat of the family minivan, buckled up my seat belt, and sat back powerlessly as my mother drove the two miles to Terrytown.

On the third day, I was so upset that I refused to get out of the van when my mother parked in the culde-sac in front of the big brick schoolhouse. Mom, still not understanding my hesitation, walked me to the kindergarten classroom and left me with the teacher, Mrs. Wingfield, who escorted me inside.

Mrs. Wingfield was your stereotypical schoolmarm, probably 60 or 65 years old and very prim and proper. Her hair was completely gray and wrapped so tightly in a bun on the top of her head that I was certain it was going to pull her face off. As she led me to my seat, the faces of the other children twisted into masks of contempt and horror. Every fiber of my being screamed for me to run away as fast as possible, so that’s exactly what I tried to do. But Mrs. Wingfield held on to me and, in a very calm and gentle voice, asked what was troubling me.

How does a five-year-old explain an anxiety attack or the feeling of absolute terror? I answered the only way I knew how—by kicking her in the shins as hard as I could. I kicked and punched until she finally let go of me, and I made a mad dash for the door. I ran down the hallway as fast as my feet would carry me, until I burst through the doors and was safely outside. In the distance, I saw our white minivan pulling away from the school property and screamed out at the top of my lungs, “Mom!” The van came to an abrupt halt, and my mother’s comforting arms were soon around me. But even then I couldn’t tell her how horribly uncomfortable I was in school … so I found myself back in the classroom, silently suffering in a sea of youthful hostility.

But whatever discomfort I experienced in class was nothing compared to the torture I was subjected to in the school yard during recess. Whenever I walked onto the playground, I’d find myself encircled by dozens of taunting kids who hurled razor-sharp insults at me with the kind of unfiltered cruelty that comes naturally to some children.

“Look at the ugly monster!” they’d shout.

“Hey, Frankenstein!”

“Freak … freak … freak! Go back where you came from, burn boy! We don’t want you here!”

When I tried to walk away, the kids walked backward, keeping pace with me and holding me in the center of their wicked little circle. If I rushed at them, they’d scatter, shouting over their shoulders at each other as they ran: “Look out! The monster is trying to catch you. Run!”

The same nightmare repeated itself day after day. When my mother picked me up in the afternoons and asked how school was, I’d just shrug my shoulders and mumble that it was okay. Once we were home, I’d retreat to my room and spend hours unsuccessfully trying to tie my shoes, pulling at my laces until my new thumb was rubbed raw, or until Mom called me to come downstairs for supper.

After a week or so, I started avoiding the school yard altogether. As soon as the bell rang for recess, I’d make a beeline for the fence on the far side of the property, slip through an opening in the metal, and begin walking the perimeter of Terrytown Academy.

Circling the school property during recess, I began a daily ritual of carefully observing the different groups of children as they formed together in cliques to play games or share gossip. They all looked so harmless from my safe, distant, and anonymous vantage point. I wondered how the sweet faces of the little girls happily skipping in and out of a blur of swinging jump rope could have become so evil when they’d cornered me just a week before. I stopped and listened to them singing:

Girl Guide, Girl Guide, dressed in yellow,
This is the way I treat my fellow:
Hug him, kiss him, kick him in the pants,
That is the way to find romance …

Not far from the skipping girls, a dozen boys from my kindergarten class were laughing together and slapping one another on the back as they horsed around and traded baseball cards. Their group looked so friendly and inviting, but when I’d tried to join them several days earlier, they’d turned on me viciously and mocked me until my eyes burned with tears.

Day in and day out, I’d study the various groups in the school yard, and I began to see a definite social structure. Obviously, the kids who associated within each group were linked by age and grade level, but within each grade I noticed a pecking order determined by popularity, looks, and charisma. And at the top of the kindergarten pecking order was a boy named Kieran.

Kieran was the tallest boy in our grade, with a handsome face and a wide smile that instantly put the other kids at ease. He was by far the most athletic boy as well, so physically graceful that he made tossing a football across the length of the yard or making an impossible softball catch seem effortless. To top things off, he was fast—faster than many boys twice his age.

But what I found most intriguing about Kieran was that he was a natural leader. Other kids clamored around him, looking to him to decide what the game of the day would be, and he’d organize them quickly into teams without rancor or argument. He never seemed bossy or used his popularity to lord over others—he just seemed like a really nice, fun kid to be around. And while he never stepped in to stop the other kids from picking on me, I don’t ever recall him joining in on the many occasions the kindergarten mob turned on me.

Often I’d look at the kids playing around Kieran and wonder what it would be like to join them, but I knew what would happen if I tried. I was lonely, but I preferred solitude to ridicule. So I watched from afar and continued to study my schoolmate adversaries. If a teacher approached me and asked why I didn’t join the others at play, I’d whisper something about preferring to walk by myself and hustle away until the bell rang. At home I remained silent about my emotional turmoil, continuing to conceal my growing psychological anguish. It was unbearable, and I was miserable. There is little doubt in my mind that at the age of five I was heading for an emotional breakdown.

And that’s when I first felt myself open completely to the universe and somehow tap into a power that was beyond myself, beyond anything that my limited experience had prepared me for.

T
HE DAY STARTED LIKE EVERY OTHER:
I arrived in class, was greeted by muttered jeers and derision as I walked to my desk, and then sat sullenly until the recess bell rang and I could flee from the school yard and walk the perimeter in peace. But on that particular day, I felt a shift—not only in my mood, but also in the very way the energy of the world seemed to be flowing around me. Everything was different. My senses became sharper, and I felt stronger than I’d ever felt before.

Again, I don’t know if it was God giving me the gift of self-awareness or what, but on that particular morning I had a revelation. I received a flash of inspiration that convinced me I had the power to change the world around me, including the things that were making me miserable. The feeling grew so strong in me that I came to a sudden, dead stop in the middle of my perimeter walk and turned toward the playground.

As usual, the boys were gathering around Kieran, who was organizing a game of tag. He had them huddled into a circle to decide who was going to be “it.” As I watched them, I felt a sudden push, as if someone had shoved me forward. Then I felt it again. I took a step and caught myself. I remember turning around for a split second to see who’d done the pushing, but there was no one there. As I turned my attention back to the boys in the huddle, I was suddenly consumed by a new feeling of contentment, and I heard these words in my head:
Whatever it takes, you will make a friend today. Now go!

I felt invincible.

Without another moment’s thought, my feet began to move, and I found myself running at full tilt toward the little knot of boys huddled around Kieran. When they saw me coming, they immediately screamed, “Look out, he’s coming! The monster is coming! Run for your life!”

The huddle of boys scattered, but I had set my sights on my target. I was going after Kieran, and I chased him all over the playground. He was running as fast as I’d seen him run before, but I kept gaining on him. I felt another surge of energy, another push from beyond, and—wham! The next thing I knew, I had the fastest and most popular boy in kindergarten in a full tackle. We skidded along the ground and began to wrestle. He fought hard, but I was stronger and finally pinned him down.

A crowd had gathered around us by this time, and every one of the kids stood there with their mouths open. The silence was deafening. I stood up and then helped Kieran up, too, and we stared at each other for a moment or two. Then he reached out to me, clasped my wrist with his hand, and introduced himself. Even though the chasing and wrestling had been a violent burst on my part, it put a stop to the ticking time bomb inside me. My anger and emotional misery fizzled away at that moment. I felt only peace and joy as Kieran turned to the other boys and girls around us and said that I was now his friend.

A surge of raw energy shot through me. Again, I don’t know if it was God taking a spin through my soul for a moment or what, but I know I’d never experienced anything like it before. The surge was a little bit scary to me when it happened, but only because it was so unfamiliar—as unfamiliar as suddenly being accepted. I felt like a door had opened inside of me. I realized that I’d been my own worst enemy, that I’d allowed myself to be consumed by fear, and others had picked up on that. When I tackled Kieran, I’d taken on my own fear, and I emerged victorious.

Kieran was now my friend, and because he was so popular, the other kids followed his lead. I’m not saying that everything about my “differences” faded away like magic, but this acceptance allowed me the ability to stop erecting my own roadblocks (which I hadn’t even realized I’d been building). From that day on, school was no longer a burden to be dreaded. I began to grow, both physically and academically.

I began to take part in class discussions and work in study groups without feeling like a complete outcast. I even started to play games with the other kids—real games of basketball, soccer, kickball, baseball, and football. I knew I’d finally discovered that elusive thing that every other kid takes for granted: childhood. Now I had a shot at a relatively normal one, with genuine friends I could bring home and play with.

Over the next couple of years, I made more and more friends. At the end of each school year, I also routinely saw my name on the dean’s list—by the fourth grade, my grades were among the highest in the academy.

As I slowly grew used to my new thumb, I found that I could do more and more things that otherwise would have been impossible. Although I still couldn’t tie my shoelaces, I no longer considered this to be a failure; it was just a challenge that I knew I’d conquer one day. I loved my new life, my newfound sense of being a boy. I’d lost so much by giving in to my own insecurities and fears, and now I’d taken it back.

I reclaimed my life, and I was determined to excel.