X factor

In order for us to fully understand our childhood we must resort to exaggerated stories passed down from our parents, relived and revived by photos and home videos. My parents claim I started talking in full sentences at six months, depicting me to have been a “little person” from birth, an old soul that did not quite fit the mold of a typical toddler. I didn’t like cartoons or Disney movies; I was only entertained by TV with “real people.” The first movie I ever saw was Pulp Fiction. I sat on my dad’s lap transfixed. When my mom walked in the den to view this absurd site she immediately questioned my dad, perplexed by how he thought this was in anyway appropriate. Throwing his hands up in the air with a slight smirk he replied, “What! Look at her, she likes it!”
I preferred the Eagles to barney tunes and often freaked out various babysitters while I happily bounced in my car seat singing along to hotel California. My parents, thinking they had produced a baby prodigy, brought me to a speech therapist. He informed them not to worry, that my language developed way before everything else and in time it would all even out. This aspect allowed me to retain and often repeat words I overheard from my parents unfiltered conversations and my “real people” TV. In most lights this trait was viewed as positive and comical. Yet, I had no idea what these words meant nor did I have any sense of timing, which proved to be dangerous, especially when in public.
We had just moved to the suburbs from NYC and there was a party at a fellow neighbor’s house. My mom was excited to mingle with the new community and introduce my sister and I to kids our own ages. The celebration was for a girl named Jenny who lived three houses down, she was turning two and invited all the other young kids on the block over to celebrate. We began to play a game that consisted of jumping off her bed into the arms of our moms, simple yet extremely. There were about 12 kids at the party and the system of the game was to wait in single file, gathered beside the bed, for our turn to make the leap into our mom’s arms. I was bored with the other children who stared blankly back at me, unable to speak. I began cutting the line thinking I was better than all the other two year olds and that I deserved to go five times before they even went once. My mom pulled me aside telling me I had to play fair, warning me that if I cut the line once more she would take me home. I didn’t listen and continued shoving kids out of the way. She pulled me away once again and firmly stated that this was the last straw. I proceeded to cut the line yet again. My mom was extremely embarrassed by my actions that were being carried on in an environment of strangers whom she had hoped to befriend. She grabbed me and excused herself from the party with flushed cheeks. “We are leaving!” she said in a furious yet hushed tone. I was propped up on a dresser in the corner of Jenny’s room and after hearing my moms intense command I stood myself up, got in her face and screamed as loud as my little voice could, “FUCK YOU!” Every parent at the party averted their eyes to the corner of the bedroom, amazed not only by my choice of words but also by the fact that I had even spoken. My mom froze, yet once again forced a smile and excused herself from the small gathering. She swept me up in her arms and upon a deep sigh told me that, “my life was basically over.”