His name was Awkward, well, at least that’s what they called him.  Maybe you remember him from your Jr High days.  He was a bit chunky and his scruffy hair straggled over his ears.  His shoes were tired, tattered and torn, matching his jeans and t-shirt.  He was very shy, extremely quiet, he only spoke when spoken to and then it was a low mumble aimed at his shoes.

It was the last day of Jr. High and the entire 8th Grade was on a field day at Lagoon, the local amusement park.  While the others boys rode the roller coaster and chased the girls from one end of the park to the other, he was off by himself on a long slow walk through Pioneer Village.  He loved the old gun museum, he dreamed of buffalo hunts and scouting expeditions out on the lonely prairie, he thought he might have fit in, in a time like that.

While the girls screamed in the fun house and chased the boys right back to where they started, he was over out at the Midway spending the $10 his mother gave him that morning.  That’s where he won the stuffed dinosaur.  It was big, fluffy and blazing pink, perfect for his little niece he thought.

While the others swarmed back to the bus in groups of “Jocks”, “Preps”, “Nerds”, and “Stoners”, he wandered back by himself, took his seat and set the big fluffy dinosaur in the empty space beside him.  But all that did was give others a reason to notice him.

The comments didn’t faze him, at first, it was to be expected.  Usually they just made a few jokes and then left him alone.  It wasn’t until the yellow haired girl started singing as she danced into his space, snatching the dinosaur, that he realized it was not a normal taunting.  She sang something about pink dinosaurs’ living where the sun don’t shine.

Then she started chanting: “Awkward!”, “Awkward!”, “Awkward!”, and the whole back half of the bus joined in, not out of meanness or cruelty, but just because everyone else was doing it, and it felt good to be a part of a group.  But silently they were each thanking God the chanting was not aimed at them.  She directed the chant like she was directing a symphony.  “This side Awk, this side Ward” and they complied  “Awk – Ward”,  “Awk – Ward”.  “This side “Awk Awk” That side “Ward Ward”.  “Awk Awk – Ward Ward”, “Awk Awk – Ward Ward”, “Awk Awk – Ward… Ward”.  Ward, that’s me!

That was the longest ride of my life and all I wanted, was to be invisible.  A lump formed in the back of my throat and it hurt to swallow, who am I kidding, it just hurt, everywhere.  I was afraid to speak for the crack in my voice.  I was afraid to blink, for fear the closing eyelids might squeeze out the tear I fought so hard to hold back.  And that’s all they wanted, really, was just a whimper or a tear.  She worked so hard for it as she danced over my half empty seat.

I’m proud to say I didn’t let them see me cry that day.  And I’m proud to say, though I heard them loud and clear with the singing and chanting, I didn’t listen to them. More important, I didn’t believe them.  I chose not to believe because somewhere else deep-down inside was another voice, a soft low whisper rising up from within telling me a different story.  Telling me I was ok and everything would be all right.  That’s the voice I listened to, and that’s the voice I believed.  And, if you stop and listen closely, you can hear that voice too.  Telling you, “you’re ok, and everything will be all right.”  I hope that’s the voice you listen too!  I hope that’s the voice you believe!

Well, like all rides, that one ended, and just like that Jr. High was over.  Do you know what happens when a quiet, shy, awkward High School misfit cleans up?  When he exercises with weights and runs?  When he gets a job at the local burger Joint, buys Levi 501’s and OP T-Shirts just like everyone else, all in an attempt to blend in and be invisible?  Well, besides the soft fluffy parts growing lean and powerful… Nothing.  He’s still a quiet, shy awkward High School misfit who mumbles when he talks.  Oh, there is one thing that changes.  The names, they go from “goofy,” “shy” and “Awkward”; to “stuck up”, “conceded”, and “arrogant”.  It’s confounding how one could go from one end of the spectrum to another with nothing more than a shower and a clean shirt.

But I guess that’s the point; as we go through life, the critics will talk and they’ll come at us from every direction.  But it’s up to us to choose who we’re going to listen to, and more importantly, who we’re going to believe.  I’ve known too many people who have chosen to listen to critics and have wound up running in circles in a futile effort to please those who don’t matter.  I’ve known too many people who have been told; You’re too dumb, you’re too slow, you’re too shy, you’re to this, you’re too that; you’re not smart enough, you’re not fast enough, you’re not pretty enough, you’re just not enough… AND they’ve listened, and more tragically, they’ve believed them.  In so doing accepting the verdict and corresponding life sentence of living a life well below their potential, all because they listened to an opinion that doesn’t matter.  It makes my heart sad and ache for them.

I’ve thought a lot about this and it’s inspired the following;

The Critics Will Speak…

Ward E. Wilson

The critics will speak to the simple and week, the words no others will hear.

The critics will speak to the strong and the sheik, their words are sprinkled with fear.

They’ll tell you you’re awesome, you’ve made it, you’re golden, you’re perfect in every way.

They’ll laud you for winning, high five you while grinning, then as quickly just turn away.

When you listen to “They” and what “They” have to say, strange things begin to unravel.

False ups and downs, phony smiles and frowns, on their verdicts as “They” strike their gavel.

But wait! Who are you! To listen to “They”?

Taking heart to hear what “They” have to say?

Instead listen hard, for the one left unmarred, through the loud and constant chatter.

To the whisper of love, rising up from above, it’s the only opinion to matter.

Yes, the critics will mumble, the critics will grumble of what may or may not be true.

But, it’s who you choose to believe through the stories “They” weave, in the end that will make you, or break you.