The following story was written for the Goodman Theater’s storytelling program Generations.
The Oddball
By Eve Brownstone
It was the fall of 1979. Reagan was about to take over the White House. My family moved to Akron and my life turned upside down.
I found myself staring at the oak stained hardwood gym floor, looking down at my smudged blue keds.. I scrubbed them last night.
Five other 12 year olds made a semi circle around me.
Some kids started asking questions.
One girl barked, What kind of shampoo do you use?
How often do you shower?,
It felt like every answer I gave made them stare harder. Like I was getting the side-eye for just… existing.
“I use Prell,” I said. “I wash my hair every other day.”
Surrounded by those kids,I thought about my Aunt Annie, who had thick, beautiful hair and she only washed it once a week. I wanted to say that, but I didn’t.
Then one girl proudly snorted, “Well, I take two showers a day.”
I just smiled. Tried to be nice. I always tried to be nice.
I just wanted to fit in.
But standing there, I knew I didn’t.
That was my first week at Litchfield Middle School, seventh grade.
I was twelve when we moved to Akron, Ohio. Mom, Dad, me, Laura, Caty and our dog Flower 2nd piled into our Volvo Station Wagon. We moved from the windy city of Chicago because of Dad’s job.. I left good friends. Played tag, four square and double dutch with Kenita, Vicki, and Stacy in Farmer’s Field
But in Akron?
We pulled onto Merriman Road, and I remember thinking:
Where are all the Black people?
Seriously — that was my first thought.
At my new school, there were maybe twenty Black students in a sea of thousands.
What I saw were Izod shirts. Blow dryers. Boat shoes.
And everybody washed their hair.
Every. Single. Day.
I was a sensitive kid. I wish I could have used humor…like speak to the hand.your smelly but what am I. Something other than crying. There was blood in the water and the sharks nibbled at my heart.
I remember crying in class… again.
My teacher didn’t stop the bullying.
She just came up to me afterward and said,
“Well… if you stopped crying, they wouldn’t pick on you.”
Like my tears were the problem.
Like I was the problem.
And it didn’t stop.
Seventh grade. Eighth. Ninth. Tenth.
I tried to get out of class any way I could. Nurse’s office, guidance counselor, wherever.
I faked being sick just to escape.
The guidance counselor knew me well.
One day, she convinced me to go back to choir.
I walked in, and the whole class turned and said, in unison:
“Eve is woozy!” became the new chorus of my life.
That stupid sentence dug in.
Like there was something wrong with me.
Like I was broken.
Instead of realizing they were cruel,
I thought:
I must be bad.
I must be unlikable.
I must be the oddball.
Eventually, I found theater.
I met other odd balls. Oddballs Unite!
They helped me express things I couldn’t say out loud.
But that little girl —
The one in jeans with the unwashed hair and big feelings —
she never felt like she fit in.
But maybe…
Maybe she was just the real one in the room.
My 40th High School Reunion is coming up this year. I was considering going then I decided to let them know I was washing my hair that night.
