Outcast Like Me

  
I remember him as an outcast just like me, but I think he had it worse. We were neighbors although he didn't live next door. Now that I think about it, everyone on our street was an outsider. We were all striving for something more than we were, wanting to climb and claw up the social and economic ladder.

Growing up there, I thought we were poor. When I visited Pine Ridge Indian Reservation, I saw poverty. We were not poor; we were working class. We were as blue collar as they come, union and all.

He was poor. I remember his mom struggling to put food on the table, and I remember bringing over lunches every now and again. I also remember hating him. He made me look bad, and I didn't need an help in that area.

When no one was looking, we were friends. We'd head over to the Witches' Tree and play spies or cops and robbers or some other boyish game. He took karate. I hated sports. We found that middle ground of imagination.

Remembering him reminds me that we all categorize and compartmentalize. We are taught how at a very early age thanks to money, school, religion, gender boxes, the list continues.

Thanks to necessity, we find ways to blur them.

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