Origami and the Origin of Awkwardness

In the beginning of my middle school years, I had an obsession with origami. Oh no no no, this was no ordinary obsession. I couldn’t simply put an end to it and move on with my life. This obsession took root deep in my mind, driving me to constantly fold and create every chance I had. If there was any paper in my house, it would not be there for long. My hands would appear to friends and peers to writhe and fumble with no clear rhyme or reason, but a trained eye could see that I was making art; a cootie catcher to predict the future, star boxes to hold precious belongings, foxes and birds to decorate even the plainest of rooms. All the knowledge I had came from a book of ancient techniques; The Usborne Book of Origami and other Paper Projects. With its wisdom and guidance, I was truly a prodigy in the art of origami.

That is, until one fateful day when reality reared its hideous head and changed me forever.

It was band class, my sixth-grade year. I was up to my old tricks again, modifying a humble cootie catcher into an instrument of destruction… a game of Truth or Dare. On four flaps, you would be forced to share your deepest secrets and desires. On the other four, a dangerous and humiliating challenge lurked, ready to leave its victims socially crippled. My band teacher, still droning on at the front of the class, was unaware of my scheme as I wrote away on the remaining flaps. At last, I put the finishing touch on the last flap, a dare so shameful that no one who attempted it would ever want to show their face again.

“Say ‘I like Dora the Explorer’ like a girl.”

My immature eleven-year-old mind was cackling madly. I was content imagining the mortified looks in my friends’ eyes as they heard the deed they had to complete.

I was so absorbed in my indulgence of suffering that I didn’t notice something approaching before it was too late. A hand, more wrinkled than a crumbled piece of paper, snatched the device from my chair, slow as molasses but with the authority of kings. The band teacher had finally realized my transgression and was now in possession of my precious item. My heart and soul shrank in despair instantly, but I did my best to calm myself. It’s alright I thought. He’s just taking it until the end of class. Once it’s over, I’ll just get it back, Then I can finish what I started.

Oh, how naive I was.

My band teacher unraveled the cootie catcher, undoing all of the careful work I had put into it. The class looked to the teacher in attention while I bemoaned how I would have to start all over. But the worst was yet to come. His eyes, made sharper from his small glasses, seemed me to be drunk with mischief. No, it wasn’t enough for him to make me start again. He wanted to see me broken, destroyed. He wanted to make an example of me, an example no one would ever forget. One by one, the maddened teacher read off each and every truth and dare I had written.

Including one misspoken dare, “I like Dora the Explorer like a girl.”

HE READ IT WRONG! Of course he read it wrong! I didn’t have the best handwriting in my class, so maybe he couldn’t read it properly. But then again, why would I, an eleven-year-old, boy, even remotely enjoy a show for small children about a young girl who breaks the fourth wall far too many times and teach viewers how to speak Spanish and use tape?! (And yes, that was an actual plot that happened in the show. That’s pretty much the only scenario I could think of off the top of my head.)

My classmates pointed crookedly at me, staring at my teacher in horror, as they laughed their scornful laughter. The sounds of their twisted enjoyment of my destruction rang in my ears and overpowered my frame. Salty teardrops fell from my eyes like river rapids, then dropped from my face onto the floor. It was then that a transformation came over my mind. Gone were my ambitions and desires to fold paper into origami. Gone was my love for origami. And gone was my desire to show off for those around me…

To this day, I can still feel the effect that the day had on me. I’m now awkward, a little shy, and I don’t enjoy talking about my interests that much. I guess I have this subconscious fear that an imaginary band teacher will pop out from behind a door or plant and convince everyone that I deserved to be laughed at. But as of late, I’ve been steadily coming out of my shell. I’ve found people that I’m comfortable talking to, and I’ve found that through writing, I can more easily say what I enjoy; including anime meant to sell products to children.

I’m thankful for opportunities to share who I am, even if I don’t seem to enjoy it. No one deserves to be scorned for doing what they love, and everyone has a passion that they can and should be proud of. If I could, I would go back to the day my awkwardness was born and tell my younger self, “Don’t let them change who you are. You are an amazing and worthwhile person. Keep doing what you love. It will mold you into the person you’re meant to be.”

I would then attack my band teacher with an army of origami cranes.