Red Riot

“You’re a riot,” They said

With a slap on the back

When I asked to play ball.

“Go Home,” They said

So I squared up my chest

Looked ‘em dead in the eyes

And lunged for the ball.

I was less of a riot

(Or more so, so you’d think)

When my lip was all busted

And my knees looked like battlefields

Of green and brown and glistening red.

But I had the ball

Tucked snug in my hands

So tight that my broken finger

Barely hurt at all.

“You’re a riot,” She said

But she didn’t mean the laugh.

No, she meant the chaos

I left in my wake

At the dawn of the day

When boys and girls were split

In a row down the middle.

The guys had started a game

- Kevin One, Kevin three, Kevin sixty-nine -

And it was only right

That as Kevin 47

I be allowed on the guy’s side.

But oh, no one else liked that

My teacher especially

Who’s face turned a blotchy red

When I insisted on staying

Right where I was.

“You’re a riot,” Mom said

With eyes like porcelain.

Her cheeks were wet with tears -

Mine or hers, whoever really cared,

- As she pressed the napkin

Oh so gently to my bloodied nose.

She told me not to fight the other kids

That it wasn’t an insult to be a girl

But I’d taken it as one

Swinging as hard as I could.

I’d missed.

The other kid hadn’t.

“But Mom,” I tried

Even as the tears in her eyes multiplied

And she held me to her chest

And let the blood on my nose

Soak into her red t-shirt.

“You’re a riot,” he’d said

With a hand held to his forehead

The remnants of laughter

Still smudged on his cheeks

And in his eyes.

Being a substitute was hard

But I guess I’d made his day

By straightening a little higher

When he called me “Sir”

And slouching a little further

At the implication of “Ma’am”

And turning bright red at the ears

At the insults my friend flung

The moment some ass in class

Tried raising his hand

To correct the sub

On what was actually in my pants.

Do you remember

Being a kid

And having to assign

An adjective to your name?

Do you remember the pressure,

The mounting anticipation,

The closer your turn came?

“Riot Ryan,” I said

And the whole class snickered

And it didn’t bother me

Not one bit

Because at least they were laughing

At Ryan

And not at the other kid

With long hair and pierced ears

And frilly flower shirts

And bedazzled black flats.

Nope.

This time around,

They were laughing At Ryan

With his short-cropped hair

And his torn-up jeans

And his chipped front tooth

And his bright red sneakers

Because he’d just rhymed in class

And made a stupid pun with his name

And not because

He was sitting

On the guy’s side of the room.