Tom DeRoma

The Vision of Normalcy

“Mom, that man -- is missing an arm,” I said, speaking strictly through my teeth so as not to let the one-armed-man hear. “Well don’t stare,” my mother said, ”You think you’re the vision of normalcy?” The man walked by us in the park, smiled at me, the one staring unblinkingly, and waved his remaining hand at my mother, who kindly smiled back.

The vision of normalcy? Well, I’m not missing an arm like that guy, nor am I running any sort of surplus on appendages; I’m not connected at the head to my brother; I’m not a giant or a midget for that matter; I’m not pierced or tattooed and have no special inclination for leather; Yes. I am the vision: the smiling white figure with the black dotted line down the center of his body to show symmetry; I am him, normal, perfectly normal. Well, perfectly besides the purplish birthmark on my right thigh. And I guess I have a few moles too. Then there’s still that scar on my arm from falling through the glass table last year and people do kind of wince when they see it. And I do sometimes like the feeling of sticking pencils in my ears and I suppose not many boys collect their own hair or wear their mother’s high heels around either.

Does my mother hear the conversations I have with myself in the mirror, repeating the same words over and over to see what my mouth looks like when I speak? Does she know about my strange dreams and the missing underwear? I remained silent for the rest of the walk home, no longer studying others for their abnormalities, but for their stares; they were on to me, this little freak child.