true story

I reached the peak of my intellect at age 5.



I left Kindergarten reading at a fifth to sixth grade level.

Summer made me even smarter and by the time I got to first grade everything was boring and pointless.

I called Stephanie a "bitch" because she would only let me be Sporty Spice when I wanted to be all of the Spices.

I got an after-school attendant in trouble because he wanted to play "Santa Claus" with all the little girls and I refused to sit on his lap even after he had twisted my arm with his disgusting hands as I wrenched my little body away.
(My mom will tell you the next part of the story that includes her arriving to pick me up, reading my terrified face, and then daring him to ask her to sit on his lap.)
I was punched in the stomach in front of everyone for beating Nolan, the best handball player, because girls aren't allowed to win over boys.

It was probably at this age that I was the most actively feminist I have ever been and I didn't even know it.

My best friend's name was Jessica and she had freckles and she told me she was an orphan and I admired her for it.

The only other orphans I knew about were Pippi Longstocking and Annie and they both had freckles, so, obviously, she had to be a real orphan.

When i was mad at her I would scream her name.

"JESS-ICK-KUH!"

We looked at each others armpits everyday to see if one of us could grow hair there.
Later, I found out it was like, her grandma, who had adopted her and her mom was still around.
I was really pissed about learning this for some reason, which is so messed up.

My first crush was on a boy named Justin, who wore a Puka shell necklace all the time, but he got a free pass because he was half Polynesian.
Even as a small child, I was obviously really concerned with authenticity.
Justin would later on give me my first Blink-182 CD for Valentine's day.

He doesn't know this, but this one gift changed my musical taste and, maybe, my life forever.

What a cool little boy.

(With cool parents who bought a Blink-182 CD to give to his crush.

I want to thank them and hug them.)

Anyway.

They had to put me in "gifted" classes to distract me and by the end of one year I had been cycled through two to three different classes because no one was competent/patient enough to deal with me.
They probably also didn't get paid enough.
Mrs. Montgomery was the worst and I can still see her short blonde bob and beady, but beautiful blue eyes sending me to the back of the line.
That was the punishment for a lot of things.
Getting sent to the back of whatever arrangement they wanted us in.
Now that I think about it, it says a lot about a school who spent days upon state-mandated days simultaneously teaching us about (only what they wanted us to know) people like Rosa Parks.
I was made to feel like a nuisance because I knew the answer to everything.

I assumed the kids around me did too.

So obviously, I was a "distraction" to my peers.

But I think I just wanted to talk about other things.

Luckily, my mother knew me well enough to know that it wasn't because I had ADD, but because she was a good enough parent to teach me and let me learn on my own about all the dumb shit they were teaching me incorrectly.

Anyway.

I remember being taken out of regular class to sit in an empty, brown classroom to study the bird of my choice with the other "gifted" children.

I chose a weird kind of blue-jay.

A some kind of nuthatch, I think.
One thing about parenting that I learned from my mom is that you gotta be the parent that buys the 250-page book about every single bird for your kid.
Even if there's only one single page about the bird they are interested in.
Just buy the whole book and then buy three more even if they didn't ask.
Listen, even if it's just pretend because it's boring as hell, to all the things the stupid fucking bird eats.
Then ask about where the stupid fucking bird lives and pretend to care.
You fight the system because you know your kid. You get them into the "gifted", weird-bird classes.
This is parenting. This is how you raise smart, unique, amazing children. And it is work.
Anyway.

I made a bluebird out of paper maché and they took us out of class one day to go to a museum to listen to bird calls and see SCIENCE.

I was a giant nerd with bunny teeth and I didn't even care.

It was probably only at this age that I was ever truly subversive and I didn't even know it.

Anyway.

One day I woke up out of my usual first grade malaise to my teacher explaining to us what "mixed feelings" meant.

I guess she said the phrase and someone didn't understand.

I already knew what this meant and thought the answer was ridiculously obvious.

But this was good shit, so I sat there quiet and attentive for once.

She wrote the phrase "mixed feelings" on a white board and underneath the phrase drew a a vertical line and asked us what emotions we could feel at the same time.

The first graders started raising their hands.

"Happy" was written on one side and "sad" was written on the other.

A small child is called on and volunteers, "angry" then "scared". 

"Shy" | "Excited"
Ugh.

I didn't know why then but in that moment I was extremely frustrated with these answers.

This lesson stuck with me for the past 18 years or so as I have tried and still try to draw the line between every conflicting emotion I've ever had.

Last night, I dreamed of the 24-year-old me raising my hand at the back of the classroom.

I sit in a tiny chair that even my 5 foot frame envelops.

She calls my name.
"Katrina."

I say the word my 6-7 year old self would have said in the now decades-old moment of frustration, had she had the fortitude or the lexicon.

I say, "fucked".

Then I wake up.