Me

when I was innocent

I found a picture of me. I think it is from 1975. As a teenager, I hated getting my picture taken, so there are only a few photos of me around.

Me before realization dawned

I mean really, I was no more gawky than any other average teenage boy. Look at that picture. Long black hair to hide my dumbo ears. The look of a trapped animal as mom insists on a photograph.

But Betty broke my ego, and afterwards I avoided the lens

How, you ask?

Well, in Grade 9, Betty was my crush. Oh, how I loved being around her. She was dark-haired and dark-eyed, with porcelain skin and lips like raspberries. A farm girl who smelled of horses, hay, and mystery.

She sat across from me in homeroom. We talked.

Well, she talked. I listened.

We talked about everything—growing up, our farms, our families, our dreams. She’d slip her arm through mine as we walked down the hall. She’d lean warm against me and spark Catholic guilt. We sat together at lunch. Shared French fries that I imagined were French kisses. One slow salty, electric bite at a time.

Sometimes she’d ask about my older brother, the star soccer player.

I probably should have caught on then, when she started asking probing questions about his girlfriend.

“Oh, he doesn’t have one?”

“My… what does he like?”

“What are his hobbies?”

Clueless, I finally worked up the nerve to ask her to see a movie.

She snorted in surprise—like one of her horses.

Then she changed the subject. Talked about the weather. And the upcoming school dance.

She mentioned that my brother was the cutest boy ever.

Could I introduce her?

Oh.

Realization stung like a broken hornet’s nest.

I wasn’t her destination. I was simply her access point.

All I could process with clarity in that moment: I wasn’t cute.

So there are very few photographs of my teenage years. Ugly people don’t need to be reminded.

But there above is one from when I still believed in lies. And below is 3-year-old me impersonating Churchill.

Mini Churchill ready to save the West

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