He didn't smile often, although who could blame him. His rotting teeth were half the size they should have been, brown and grey and green, stained circles on each enamel-- probably from his former brackets. That would have to be the only indicator that he did once have braces, as his teeth now overlapped each other, placed here and there. No longer a straight and structured paint stroke by a professional artiste, but rather a jagged sketch from a two year old child.
Even his body stood crookedly. When he walked he resembled a beaten and abused canine-- skewed, awkwardly hunched over, hobbling from one destination to the next. When he staggered past, a breeze would send over the cigarette stench that lingered in his greasy hair and worn clothes. His whole demeanor screamed "troubled soul."
All over his bony body were ink stains, each with little or no significance whatsoever. A pair of numbers. "The year I was born." A blue rose. "Just a rose." A lego. "It makes me super indie and cool." A star. "Who doesn't have this tattoo?" A cliche heartbroken statement. "Love IS Hell." An ostrich head with Native American feathers. "I thought the Indian feathers looked rad." A true hipster indie kid, if I ever met one.
You could definitely tell he was one of those kids in middle and high school-- you know. The socially awkward one with his just as socially awkward friends that was always quiet and shy and unspoken, teased on constantly for his rail-like body and bug eyes, yet had some profound talent that made him some kind of prodigy. (At my high school, his name was Matthew Diasio, and he recieved a perfect score of 36 on his ACT.) But now he's out of high school-- a second chance to make something of himself in the world. This time, he wouldn't fail.
But those eyes.
There was something about them that would intrigue your attention and capture your interest. He had very large, sunken in brown, eyes. The kind of brown that makes you think of milk chocolate or hazelnut coffee with a bit of cream. Sometimes, they looked curious, hungry for more knowledge and understanding. Sometimes, they looked excited, from the prospect of something new and adventurous. Most of the time, however, they looked sad. There was something deep inside that had been haunting him, something he had been wishing he could forget, something he could rid himself of, causing him an unspoken misery. Oh, he tried to hide it, yes, to force himself to feign a smile here and there, to appear happy and normal. But those damned bug-like eyes-- those eyes will always betray him.
It seems that we are all guilty of being too quick to judge. All growing up, I had believed that you must learn to get to know a person before you form an opinion. By middle school, I saw that other's were not so willing to give me that chance, and so I forgot that oh so valuable trait I once possessed. I became cruel and unfeeling, making my remarks and comments about others that I had never truly had actually met and observed. It's the the whole Narcissism Theory-- we're attracted to what looks like us, and vice versa. Everything and everyone else, otherwise, is pushed away and cast aside while we viciously laugh at their flaws that make them so different and so less than us "superiors." It became a habit, and anyone who did not immediately captivate my interest (or interest of my friends) was categorized in the differential and peculiar society. I have forgotten, and now I must re-learn. Meeting him, I immediately stereotyped and judged and labeled him. Being the label of an indie-kid, promptly the terms ass-hole, self absorbed, and pseudo-artiste came to mind. I am ashamed of such quick judgements, but I see now just how habitual this process has become for ALL of us. It was seeing his eyes that made me realize that yes, there is always more than meets the eye, and true beauty is not always only skin deep. And so, without judgement and without shame, I look forward to getting to know Isaac Mingo a little more.
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