#droopy eye

Changing schools terrified me even though less kids attended Black Butte Elementary School in Shingletown than Spencer V. Williams in Downey, with only two classes of about 30 students per grade. Starting at a new school after the beginning of the school year made it hard. Given the remote location of our cabin, few neighbors existed within walking or biking distance. Our accessible neighbors consisted of older folks with no youngin’s. I had yet to meet another kid.

I can’t recall if my mom dropped me off or if I took the bus to school. I imagine Mom dropped me off because she typically did on the first day of school, giving me no opportunity to break the ice on the way to school whilst riding the bus. I remember sitting on the rough carpet of my new classroom, looking up at the green chalkboard and around at all the strange faces. I found it strange to sit on floor because we sat at desks as Spencer V. Williams.

At lunch, we lined up in alphabetical order to march to the cafeteria. With the last name “Biagetti” I knew I must be near the front of the line but lining up still forced me to interact with my peers to determine my exact spot. In line I met the kid who became my best friend for over a decade, Chrissy Bias. She immediately started talking to me, and I stared at her freckles while she talked. Instantly I liked her and felt relieved to finally know someone. We bantered back and forth over lunch and in line while we waited to march back to the classroom.

With a partner in crime I managed to socialize a bit with the other kids at recess. On a chilly, overcast, autumn day, standing somewhere on the playground with kids running around and swinging on swings, bundled in my layers, a snarky kid came up to me brought up my droopy left eye.

           “Why don’t you open your eye all the way?” the illustrious kid asked.

           “Because I can’t.” I timidly replied, not wanting to make eye contact, knowing a downturned gaze caused my right eyelid to lower as much as the left one did all on its own.

           “Why not? Just open it!” directed the prodigy child.

           “I can’t!” I screamed back as I tried with all my might to will my eye to open completely.

During our conversation other kids gathered around and stared at my deformity. I desperately attempted to explain the cause of my droopy eye with the hopes of dropping the subject. Another upstanding kid piped up, “Yes you can. You just don’t want to because you’re trying to get attention.”

           “Yeah. The new kid just wants attention!” yelled another esteemed peer.

I gave up. They made up their minds about me. Just as I physically lacked the capability to open my left eye all the way, they mentally lacked the capability to grasp someone having a medically viable explanation for not being able to open their eye all the way. To make one thing clear, it’s not as though my left eyelid drooped all the time. My deficiency mostly presented itself when I smiled or felt tired. Still, for days, maybe even weeks, kids commented on it, either to face or behind my back.

My woolly mammoth latched on to the comments and teasing and convinced me I needed to do something about it. Each night, after my mom turned off the light, I struggled in the dark to activate the muscles needed to lift my left eyelid. Maybe a genuine lack of effort did explain my inability to open my eye. Maybe if I tried hard enough and practiced my eyelid would pop open like everyone else’s. As you can imagine, my feeble attempts at rehab failed. The comments about my eye eventually faded away, either because of lack of interest or my astute peers recognized it nearly impossible for me to keep up the droopy eye act for weeks and months. But that didn’t stop me and my woolly mammoth from thinking about it daily.

If you have or had a droopy eye, let me know. There’s strength in numbers!

So, yeah... this happened.