The Boy Who Couldn’t Read
Shame, Anxiety and Other Monsters of the Mind
The air hung heavy, infused with warring scents of stale popcorn, aging molten nacho cheese and bowling shoe disinfectant.
Parents stood huddled around my friends and I as we showed off our new acquisitions. The birthday party was winding down, and we were all a sweaty mess — somehow simultaneously amped up and depleted from a candy-fueled frenzy of arcade games and air-hockey. One friend had snagged a mini basketball and another a stuffed animal. All I got was a dumb Kevin Bacon VHS. The mechanical claw had not been kind to me that day.
One of their parents asked what movie I’d grabbed.
“Foot-lose..?” I said tentatively. Or perhaps I said, “Foot-less..?”
I spent so much of my childhood trying to block out moments like this one that it’s hard to remember which I coughed up. What I do remember is I’d quit on the word halfway through. That’s what I did when I saw words I didn’t recognize.
“It’s Foot-loose,” my mother corrected with frustrated disdain. Her tone told me I’d embarrassed her again.
I hung my head low. I avoided everyone’s eyes and studied my sneakers. I’d learned to look away to avoid the pain I felt when I saw looks of disapproval or furrowed brows questioning…
