A Childhood Secret
By: April M. Hamm, She They
Tags: Nonfiction, Memoir, Mental Health, Relationships, Life

I first met Mrs. Merryweather when I sat in on my cousin’s after-school piano lesson, which took place at Merryweather’s home studio, in the modest brick house she lived in with her retired husband (who was also very old, to my childhood recollection).

In her lessons with Mrs. Merryweather, my cousin was learning popular piano arrangements and popular pedagogical pieces from popular publishers like Bastien, Faber and Faber, and Alfred. I had never gotten to play any of those popular songs from any of those popular publishers, so I was really excited about the prospect of learning popular music with a popular teacher like Mrs. Merryweather. Considering my popularity to that point had been due to my popularity with bullies at school (and in my family), the prospect of popularity in music was quite appealing!

In hindsight, I must recall that I was a rather serious student and always chose rather serious music. The irony is that, by all accounts, I was rather weird and quite goofy as a kid. For example, I used to eat whole raw onions like an apple…and then blow my onion breath in my cousins’ faces when they visited. I learned my lesson when one of my boy cousins blew salt in my eyes. My cousins get a good laugh out of that one to this day! Of course, I can also laugh about it now, but I’m lucky I wasn’t blinded in one or both eyes! (See what I mean by serious?)

By all accounts, I’ve also always been rather dramatic. For example, when people started clapping during a pause in my serious piano music in church, I stuck out my right hand like Diana Ross and the Supremes while continuing to play with my left hand. When they kept on clapping, I yelled “I’m not finished yet!!” and resumed playing with both hands until the end I (or the composer) intended. I guess they clapped again when I actually finished, but I don’t remember a thing after that horrible interruption. Apparently, it was all quite dramatic, and the grownups in attendance at the time still find the whole story hilarious to this day. I can laugh about it, too, now. But I didn’t find it funny at all back then. (That’s about the time that I learned that Baptist churches are very participatory).

I guess I was a rather serious kid when I think about it.

I certainly wasn’t popular.

Apparently, I looked like I could be popular. I mean, my facial features were proportionate, and I grew boobs before most of the other girls my age. Even though I’ve become obese and immobile due to poorly managed thyroid disorder (hypothyroidism), I continue to receive unsolicited comments about how pretty and photogenic I am. I’ve grown to absolutely despise superficial compliments (high-level training in anything will do that to you), but my Southern charms (and acting skills) are so ingrained as to shine through even the deepest and darkest of moods.

I also had friends who were popular. I was popular with popular people because I was always in the know about popular topics (because I read popular magazines). I wasn’t reading popular magazines to be popular, but popular people apparently don’t read much themselves, so I was their source for popular news and entertainment.

Having such popular friends, I understand why some people (e.g. unpopular people) assumed I must be popular, too.

Recall, however — by all accounts, I was the weird one.

I guess serious is a natural inclination for weird kids who aren’t popular themselves. I guess. (Ever notice how serious people just have to have a rationale for everything?)