Growing up, I was dubbed ‘weird’ by my peers. This label followed me everywhere — in the playground, in the soccer league I played in over the summer, and onto my parent’s Facebook pages — stuck to my back like a kick–me sign. I didn’t understand why they thought I was weird. I remember my mom saying that they called me names because they were jealous of me — but why weird? According to the Merriam-Webster dictionary, the word weird means “of strange or extraordinary character.” I was extraordinary, that was certain. I had gone from having to take an ESL program since I couldn’t read (despite English being my first language) to having read through both the Chronicles of Narnia and the Harry Potter series in the span of a year. But was I strange? It confused me to no end. Yet, no matter what I did, the label remained. I tried to be like the other girls in my class, talking like them and acting like them, but nonetheless I stuck out like a sore thumb. When all else failed, I was left with a journey of self-acceptance and embracing my weirdness.
From grade two to grade six, I was bullied relentlessly. Ostracized by all of my peers, I found a friend in the novels I would borrow from the local library. I ventured from fantasy to teen fiction to romance with ease, bringing them with me to class so I could read during the breaks. There was one instance in 6th grade where one of the girls that was particularly venomous towards me skimmed through one of my books while I was in the washroom and told the teacher about a swear word that was in it. This led him to confiscate the book and call my parents in for a meeting to discuss my behavior. It was truly baffling — he was a bystander in the harassment I was subjected to daily in the classroom and yet he cracked down over a vulgar word in one of the only things that provided me solace. My parents were shocked, to say the least, and appalled that I could get in trouble for such a thing. Despite our efforts, the teacher ultimately ruled I could no longer bring the novels I enjoyed into the classroom.
Without my stories, I had to focus my attention elsewhere at school. Outside of school, I had a love for soccer and put my all into it. But considering how my peers treated me, I’d be lucky if they would let me carry the soccer ball when it was covered in mud. My passion instead turned to theater. After playing a minor role in a school production of “The Christmas Carol,” I felt I had found a space where I could be unapologetically myself. I could channel all of my emotions and energy into a character of choice and not be perceived as ‘weird,’ since stage acting often takes on a dramatized, eccentric form.
When I moved with my family at the start of 8th grade, I was terrified that the past would repeat itself. My fear was quickly debunked as my new school had a group of ‘weirdos’ I could join, giving me a chance to break free from the anti-social cage that the label locked me in. I kept up with theater into high school, continuing to use it as a means to channel my ‘weird’ energy. But I finally had a group I could be myself around with no judgment, and I was elated.
As high school went on, I shed the mask of normalcy I’d formed when I was younger. I began to wear the clothing I wanted to wear — the bright colors and fun combinations I saw online — and found that although I’d get a lot of stares in the hallway, I’d also get a lot of compliments. I experimented with my hair color and makeup too, using my appearance as a canvas for creative expression. It was awkward at first, but the compliments I’d get helped me gain confidence in being as ‘weird’ outwardly as I was inside. I kept up with it, trying out various styles (pastel goth, preppy, and dark academia being a few). Even now, I still experiment with my appearance, and as I’ve grown and moved onto university, I’ve learnt to relish in the stares I get. To reframe them in a positive light guided by my confidence and happiness in who I am. I’ve also thought of what my younger self would think of me now, and I know that little Amy would think I was the coolest person ever. That I’m who they’d want to be when they grow up.
Sure, I might act weird. I might look weird too. I’ve reframed how I look at the label — to me, weirdness can be a strength. It means being unapologetically yourself, ignoring all judgment and doing what you want to do, looking how you want to look. What others have to say doesn’t bother me anymore because I know that there are people that love my eccentricity, that appreciate me for being who I am. Nothing can change that. I’ll keep being my weird self until the day I croak, and I hope you do too.
