Through my eyes,

behind the long bangs,

I see the children playing.

I want to play with them.

But they don't want me to.

A boy chases a girl around the room,

shrieking with laughter.

Girls play house in the corner next to the blocks.

To my right the children sit

with rag dolls on their laps,

styling their yarn hair

and dressing their flopping bodies.

Me?

I stand awkwardly in the back of the room,

watching everyone play happily

with a sense of envy, thinking,

I will never be normal like them.

I am the child nobody wants to play with,

the silent girl who can't look anyone in the eye.

I am outcast.

Through my eyes I see the world,

but can the world truly see me?

Am I no more than a blip in the scenery,

another smudge of grey

on the paint-covered canvas of life?

I am more than what meets the eye.

I am more than the awkward child sitting silently by herself.

I can write stories about magical characters

that leap off the pages when read.

I can do math at a level higher than anyone in the class.

I can read chapter books,

I can sing songs;

I can be a person, too.

But what does this matter

in the eyes of a Kindergartener?

To them, I am Different.

But through my eyes, they're all just the same.


I have autism. This is a vivid memory I have of an average day in Kindergarten. It was like this for years. Now it's gotten better. I've met some great people in high school, and they accept me. And honestly, that's all I really ever wanted.