I blend in. I am a crisp, white shadow. I am a ghost.

 

It’s all because I am a white girl.

 

There is nothing special here.

 

My eyes aren’t any prettier then the other girl with blue eyes sitting next to me. My curves are the same curves all the other girls have on them. My hair is the same espresso mocha color any girl can get for twenty bucks.

 

There is nothing special here.

 

I spent my whole life thinking I was special. I mean there had to be something I could bring to the table that no one else could whip up at home.

 

But, sadly, that isn’t true.

 

There is nothing special here.

 

I have to find a way to be okay with this new idea.

I have to find out how this came to be so true.

 

I take a walk down to my childhood. I think about what I was like as a baby. My first words, my first steps, and the first time I smiled were not firsts for anyone else. I was the last child born, so all of my firsts were just repeats of “oh, remember when so and so sat up or smiled”. There aren’t a lot of pictures of me as a baby. However, my sibling has mounds of pictures.

 

There is one picture of me. I am wearing a blue and white stripped hand me down shirt and my diaper is missing. I used to tell people who saw that picture that I just wanted to be potty trained. However, I think it means something different. How come no one stopped the little naked baby running around the house? Weren’t they afraid I would pee or poop on the ground? Did they think it was funny that I constantly took off my diaper? Oh look, here comes naked Michelle running around the house again! People were okay with this? I can almost picture it. My mom is sitting at the table, smoking a cigarette (no worries about second hand smoke yet, that study doesn’t come out for another few years) and in a hobble. I rip off my diaper thinking everything will stop and all eyes will be on me. But no, my mom just looks down at me, maybe says, “put your diaper on” and continues talking to probably my grandmother (her mother).

 

There is nothing special here.

 

Then there is this cassette tape of me. I am just wailing a wordless and toneless tune. My mother keeps telling me how beautiful it is, so I just keep on screaming away. This goes on for about three minutes. At first I thought I was just going on because my mother was so supportive and caring. Now I think about it and I replay my mother’s voice in my head. I can hear how badly she wants me to shut up. Hell, I want me to shut up and I can just shut off the tape. My mother couldn’t shut me up and she got the live version of it.

She kept telling me it was awesome so I would get bored. Too bad that plan backfired for my mother.

 

There is nothing special here.

 

We always want to believe we bring something special to this world. However, my parents taught me that I really have nothing to offer. I would get a great report card and instead of a hug or a good job, I was told to be a servant and fetch a drink. I would perform in school plays or concerts and my parents were always the ones NOT in the audience. I was always left alone as well. My mother would brag about how she could clean the whole house and I would just be sitting in my crib playing with a toy. I guess I knew back then there was no use trying to do anything, no one was watching anyhow.

 

Everything I do and every thing that comes from me will never be special because it has all been done before. There will always be someone else who came along first and did it better then I could ever do it.

 

Maybe my problem is that I keep trying to look at how I am different; when in reality, I am just as plain and ordinary as the next chick.

 

I just blend in.

There is nothing special here.

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