Eccentric Outcasts : Forum : What it's like to be an outcas..


What it's like to be an outcast

8 Years Ago


What is it like to you? We all experience it differently. How do you handle it? How does it affect you?

Re: What it's like to be an outcast

8 Years Ago


Originally posted by sarah willingham
What is it like to you? We all experience it differently. How do you handle it? How does it affect you?


I consider it somewhat of a compliment. I'm not afraid to let my personality shine through, and I don't care whether or not people approve of my opinion. My motto is be yourself. The people that mind don't matter, and the people who matter don't mind. The way I kindof look at is, hey, in a few years people are going to look at me and say, "hey, she's a genius!" ^_^

Re: What it's like to be an outcast

8 Years Ago


Personally, I don't care. The thing everybody knows about me is that 'I have no shame'. I don't give a crap about what I do and neither should they.

To be frank, I actually like being known as "The Weird Creepy Kid That No One Messes Around With" 

Re: What it's like to be an outcast

8 Years Ago


Wow! That's a hard one!
OK, with my past experience, I will just ignore them, atually I am not sure is I that different from other people...... I am not really clever, not really stupid, I am not a great writer, but not really worst...

Re: What it's like to be an outcast

8 Years Ago


What is it like to you? We all experience it differently. How do you handle it? How does it affect you?

It feels wonderful to be an outcast. Too many people in this world are afraid to be different, but not the strong ones who want to show the world differently. I consider being an outcast an honor. Nobody knows better about how to be an outcast unless you experience it for yourself.
Yes I do get put down a lot because of it but thats alright with me as long as I can express my creativity in my own, unique way. I really don't think it affects me because I put on a "couldn't care less" attitude. If others can't accept me for who I am and what I stand for then they are not worth it in my life.

Re: What it's like to be an outcast

8 Years Ago


What It is to be An Outcast

An outcast is a perspective or interpretation.  In a sense, the term "outcast" is what we attach to a person when we feel as though they are foreign.  Honestly, if we define others by their different qualities, then we are all outcasts, a singular outcast because we are not identical in every form.  On a personal observation, I am considered an eccentric outcast as a response to my mental process in general.  Primarily, we live an illusion that man is an island.

How I Handle It

Most of the responses to this forum question is that they are apathetic to others who criticize them.  Not to intrude upon defense mechanisms, but to some extent, we are quite empathic to how others view us.  In the corporeal world, we cannot act upon our altruism because there are those who do not have the desire to understand or cannot comprehend.  Perhaps this sounds as if it is an arrogant viewpoint, but no one is going to understand someone completely except yourself.  In  nutshell, I handle the interpretation of being an outcast by expressing my character in writing.

~Ayra Luccan

Re: What it's like to be an outcast

8 Years Ago


first day of school/ how a girl learns she is an outcast   For my first day of school my grandmother went all out. I had every crayon every pencil colored paper glue all the recommend supplies, I was wearing a plaid dress with matching plaid hair ribbons in my braided pig tails, I had a matching plaid pencil box and a José and the p***y cats lunch box. My grandmother had such high hopes for my first day of school. My grandmother had for some time been filling my ears with tales of her youth in a one room school house. I heard of tipping outhouses and wicked boys who dipped girls pigtails into ink wells and how she had to walk 5 miles to school trudging through knee deep snow sharing a single pair of boots with her older sister cause it was the depression you know. With visions of ink wells dancing in her head she filled my thermos with chocolate milk and sent me off to school. I came home with a tare in the lace of my dress my hair ribbons lost some where my knee scraped and there was a dent in my lunch box. My grandmother was of course horrified, it had only taken me half a day to tear my dress break my thermos dent my lunch box and lose my hair ribbons. “How how she demanded did I get into such a state. Its just pointless giving you nice things, you just destroy everything. Sighing in exasperation she holds up my now bedraggled Barbie and waves her in the air, in the course of the day Barbie had lost her shoes and had sand in her bride of Frankenstein hair. What happened? I had been looking forward to going to school with a sense of excitement. It was my first adventure into the wide world, I would learn to read and I would be with kids my own age. Spending time with anyone under the age of 65 was a rarity. Mrs. Briar was looking forward to her first day of school too. Young pretty and this was her first teaching job. We settled into our seats and smiled up at her you could almost hear her humming the getting to know you song from Anna and the king, “Getting to know you getting to know all about you getting to like you and hope you like me. With that inspiration she went around the room asking each of the children in her charge their names and what their parents did for a living. This being the late 60’s the question came out what does your father do for a living and does your mother work? Everything was going along well until she got to me. I got past my name without trouble . “What does your father do for a living.?” “I don’t know.” “Well you will have to ask him.:” She said brightly. “I cant.” “Oh? Why not?” Mrs. Briar believed that there were no stupid questions but I am sure she from that moment on knew that there were questions you wish you hadn’t asked. “I don’t know where he is.” I shrug. The foot shuffling and half smothered giggles that traveled around the room were my first indication that not knowing where your father had taken off to was not considered normal. Mrs. Briar tried to recover safe ground. “So what does your mother do?” And failed. “I don’t know.” “Ha I bet she doesn’t even know where her mother is.” My very first class room heckler. Mrs. Briar shushed him and got a trapped ‘oh do I get out of this look in her eye‘. “She’s in new Orleans.” I answered back quickly. Feeling a need to assure my class mates that I hadn’t quite totally misplaced both parents. Mrs. Briar moved onto the little girl sitting next to me. “ I’m Bethany Carver and My Father drives a garbage truck.” And everybody cheered. Well a garbage truck that is pretty cool. Then we get to free play time. Mrs. Briar said we could play with any toy we liked. The room has on offer two options either the side with the baby dolls the play ironing boards and toy kitchen or the Sand box built on a big sturdy table with cubbies full of shovels building blocks and toy bull dozers.. The boys all rushed to the sand box the girls to the play house. I paused for a moment considering my options. The girls very quickly were organizing the play. Who would be mommy who would be daddy, one had started the ironing another was setting out the tea set and three were discussing which of their baby dolls had poopie diapers. ICK. Ironing washing dishes not to mention poopie diapers were to me all things a normal person deals with if they have to but only some kind of twisted weirdo would call any of that fun. I moved over to the sandbox. I picked up a pail and shovel and begin building a sand castle. “hey, you cant do that. This is the boys area you’re a girl the girls play with the dolls.” While the girls had been organizing the house hold chores the boys had been busy sorting out pack dominance. To their leaders proclamation all the boys voiced enthusiastic agreement. “Mrs. Briar said we could play with any toy we liked and I don’t want to play with dolls. I am going to build a sand castle. You want to dig a moat for my sand castle with your bulldozer?” The boys appealed to Mrs. Briar to eject me from the boys area. Unfortunately for the boys Mrs. Briar was routing for me. There was an enemy invader in their territory, the boys gathered together in a football huddle at the other end of the sand box, to plan for war. They break apart and take up their places on either side of the table. They take up their toy bull dozers and toy trucks and making those obscene put put motor noises that boys are so fond of, they begin advancing on my sand castle. “road crew coming through.” Shoulders squashing me on either side pushing me away from the table as they bulldozed my castle. Their forces now fully committed to the assault I took two steps back from the table and flanked them, taking up new place at the other end of the table. My knees were now firmly planted in front of the cubby with all the sand box toys. Mrs. Briar gave me a battle field commission I was now captain of the table I was in charge of giving out the sand box toys insuring all the toys got put back when play time was over and that everyone shared. One of the boys asks me for the toy crane. I run to my cubby and grab the Barbie my grandmother had insisted I bring and I stuck her feet deep into the tower of my castle. “You want a crane? Ask Barbie.” Recess. “So you’re the little b*****d.” My class room heckler has a older brother, a fifth grader. I am surrounded by circle of it would seem almost every kid in the playground all jocking for place to get the best view of the first official beat down of the school year. The word b*****d is picked up and passed around the circle in scandalized giggles. “What’s a b*****d?”  I ask having never heard the word before. The older boy hiked up his pants and took a wide stance. “It means you don’t know who your father is.” He smirked and the circle laughed. “Oh, well then I’m not a b*****d, I know who my father is just not were he is.” Needless to say neither the older boy nor the gathered circle were impressed with hair splitting semantics. The older boy said something about my mother and sailors. My uncle was at this time a merchant marine but what this had to do with my mother I totally didn’t get. I was pushed from behind. Not expecting it I stumbled and fell scraping my knee. “Oh look the baby’s going to cry.” I pushed off from the ground and stood facing the older boy, the ring leader. I was pushed from behind again only this time I was expecting it. I stepped into the force of the push and with both hands gripping the handle of my José and p***y cats lunch box I swung. My lunch box connected with a loud thunk with the older boys temple right above his left eye and in a wonderful move reminiscent of cartoon pratfalls he spun half way around and fell to the ground. There was a collective intake of breath at this surprising turn of events and in the moment of silence that followed I stood there clutching my lunch box. “Does anyone else want to push me?”