3 is the age I first learned how to ride a bike.

And while I wish I could say more, I don’t have many memories of being 3.

What I do remember, is the bike I first learned on.

In my experience, most parents get their kid training wheels.

My dad did not.

He explained to me when I was older, 

that training wheels don’t teach the kid how to balance, 

It makes them reliant on the extra wheels,

And thus, more likely to never learn to ride a regular bike.

So, my first bike did not have training wheels.

It also didn’t have pedals.

My first bike was a wooden push bike,

handed down from my brother,

Meant to teach us how to balance,

But also leaving us with the option to

 put our feet down and steady ourselves.

My favorite thing was riding down hills as fast as I could,

Actually it still is.

I was 3 when I first learned how to ride a bike.

5 is the age I learned what it means to go to public school in America.

When a kindergarten teacher- on the first day of school- dangles a kid over the railing of the stairs because they were trying to see down the center.

Never mind that we were barely tall enough to see over the railing let alone fall.

Going into the bathroom is when I learned my first curse words,

Carved into the stalls, and scribbled on mirrors, 

Told by the older kids that I should read them aloud.

Not old enough to understand why they laughed, 

But old enough to understand not to say the words around teachers.

I was 5 when I learned what it means to go to public school in America

7 is the age I learned what a gifted kid was.

A gifted kid is a kid who gets taken to a room, 

and told to do different problems,

The explanation given: that it is a test to see how smart you are.

An IQ test.

A gifted kid is a kid who is sent to join the math class of the year above them,

Because they already know the material for their grade,

but they still need to do the homework for their grade- you can’t have them falling behind can you?

A gifted kid is a kid who gets put in a separate room

from the rest of the class during the PSSAs,

Because they’re the only kid who seems to care about doing well.

A gifted kid is a kid who was never taught how to study- Why would they be?

Everything comes easily.

A gifted kid is a kid from whom perfection is expected.

Not from parents, no.

no they would be satisfied with A’s & B’s.

They are satisfied with A’s & B’s.

A gifted kid is a kid who expects perfection from themselves.

That little plus mark next to the A becomes a requirement,

Without it, you aren’t good enough, 

you could have done better.

A gifted kid is a kid who is elevated above their peers,

Put on a pedestal, used as an example of good work,

Is “a pleasure to have in class”

A gifted kid is a kid who is “mature for their age”

And “so grown-up”

A gifted kid is a kid.

I was 7 when I learned what a gifted kid was.

I learned what it means to go to public school in America when I was 5.

I learned what it means to go to public school in America when I was 5,

but it wasn’t till 8 that I learned what going to public school in America does to kids.

Sitting in the 3rd grade,

a child that would barely reach my ribcage if they were here right now, 

throwing a chair at the teacher,

 using all the strength in their 100-pound frame.

I think it hit another student in the head,

but I can’t say for sure.

And I wish I could say that it’s because my memory is fuzzy, 

and not that a chair being thrown across a classroom was a recurring event.

I was 8 when I learned what going to public school in America does to kids.

10 is the age I learned what it meant to be born a girl in America. 

While my brother spent 10 playing bare-chested, 

shooting down soda cans with a BB gun,

I spent 10 being taught.

“Don’t go places alone.”

“Don’t go anywhere after dark”

“Clutch your keys between your fingers, 

NO,

not like that, that’ll hurt you just as much as it would hurt them. 

Hold them like this.”

And I wish I could say those are the only things I was taught- as bad as it is those are taught- but they aren’t.

“Never wear a skirt without something underneath it”

“Never seem distracted while you're walking alone,

It makes you look like an easy target”

Being shown how to break someone’s rib,

Walked through the steps, and told to never be afraid to fight back.

 Being placed on my back on my grandparent’s bed,

taught how to fight someone twice my size off while stuck in that position

Told to aim for the head,

 kick as hard as you can,

Don’t you dare go down without a fight.

I was 10 when I learned what it meant to be born a girl in America.

13 is the age I learned what mental health was.

See, it wasn’t something that was covered in the 7th grade,

so in the 8th grade, when I first carved lines in my arm and watched them bleed; I was scared.

I wasn’t scared of what I had done. 

No, I was scared because I liked it.

I was scared because it was hauntingly wonderful,

A destructive routine slipping off of the cold metal, 

seeping into my veins, gripping claws into the sore skin,

burrowing in, and making itself known in the off-color scars littering my skin

Screaming in desperation as they begin to fade, 

not wanting to be forgotten,

scared that others will not notice.

scared that others will notice?

It cares not, whispering and pleading in the night, 

don’t let me be forgotten,

Let me in again,

It made you feel better remember?

Mocking and begging and prideful and desperate

Once again slipping inside,

Off of sharp cold metal,

Slithering out of fingernails to weave among the bloody streams 

welcomed back like an old friend by the seeping wounds,

Surrounding and crossing the one scar that does not match

It’s as if it’s mocking with its paleness,

A constant reminder of when a knife slipping was truly an accident.

I was 13 when I learned what mental health is.

14 is the age I learned what it means to be trans in America.

When I learned to despise the first day of school,

With all of the teachers who call confidently from the role sheet.

The role sheet that has

Missing Letters and

Extra letters that do not belong, 

And the remaining ones are all scrambled around.

14 is when I learned that a substitute teacher isn’t something to be excited about

it’s something to dread

The apology at the beginning of attendance isn’t for me.

I was 14 when learned what it means to be trans in America.

15 is the age I learned about suicide.

Now, you may have noticed that I skipped a few years throughout this,

So allow me to remedy that.

1 is the age I learned how to walk;

2 is the age I learned how to speak.

4 is the age I learned how to read.

4 is the age I learned how to read, 

as long as I immersed myself in my books 

I could pretend I was anywhere but where I was.

I was 4 when I first turned to escapism.

6 is the age I learned that school is incredibly boring,

 when you already know the curriculum.

An hour until lunch is 60 minutes

That’s three thousand six hundred seconds,

That’s so long…

I was 6 when I started getting in trouble for reading in class.

9 is the age I realized that not every school was more about survival than learning- I had just gone to a really bad school before.

I was 9 when I had to re-learn everything I thought I knew about public school in America.

11 is the age I learned what DnD was, 

falling in love with a way to be someone else, 

someone stronger than who I really am, 

someone more interesting than myself.

I was 11 when I fell in love with a game of escapism

12 is the age I learned what a pandemic was.

It’s something that took three years of my life from me,

Something that I started high school with,

Something hanging like a dark cloud waiting to strike.

It’s something that ruined friendships,

and something that built up new ones

I was 12 when I learned what a pandemic is

16 is the age I’m not quite sure what I’ll learn yet.

I hope I learn to drive,

I love the freedom of it.

16 is an age I haven't yet reached,

An age that is undefined, and free.

And, I hope I can un-learn some of my previous years,

But hopes are not always properly translated into reality.

Even if they were,

The world is crumbling around me,

Life sweeping me up in riptide after riptide,

Each time I think I have escaped,

manage to take a breath,

I am pulled under again,

Spun and battered, 

Until I’m on the verge of giving up.

And then I am able to surface, 

And take a breath.

Only to be pulled back down,

As if life itself was toying with me.

16 is an age that I’m not sure I’ll reach.