Actually, the title is the name of a book I read (and loved) as a child; it was about an outcast girl just longing for the money for new ribbons for her braids. She was called, “the Funny Girl,” by her tormentors. That book helped me through the loneliness of my early school years.
Junior High was (so far) the worst part of my life. Seventh grade started with a few guys pointing and snickering at me. It snow-balled. I didn’t have many friends, and the few I did have didn’t have classes with me. Class wasn’t too bad, but the halls were a nightmare. I endured cat-calls (I wore thigh-length denim skirts) and chants of, “MOONHEAD, MOONHEAD,” (I have a high forehead, which was emphasized by me pulling my long hair into a pony-tail). It continued onto the school bus. One time, with the entire bus chanting at me, I ran down the street (pass my father) in hysterics. When he caught me, he slapped me in the face. He was embarrassed because I had run past him. I don’t know why the hell he had chosen that one time to intervene, and I only vaguely remember him standing there. When your name rhymes with, “Harlot,” and you know what it means, it hurts even when EVERYONE realizes you are NOT that epithet.
I don’t know when it stops hurting. I thought most of this had stopped mattering years ago, and then I have to realize something is really wrong with me, so I start looking back, looking for someone to blame. You know, other than myself.