Full text and summary of writer Shane Koyczan’s talk titled “”To This Day” … For The Bullied And Beautiful”.
Listen to the audio version here:
TRANSCRIPT:
There’s so many of you. When I was a kid, I hid my heart under the bed because my mother said if you’re not careful, someday someone’s going to break it. Take it from me, under the bed is not a good hiding spot. I know because I’ve been shot down so many times, I get altitude sickness just from standing up for myself.
But that’s what we were told. Stand up for yourself. That’s hard to do if you don’t know who you are. We were expected to define ourselves at such an early age. And if we didn’t do it, others did it for us, geek, fatty, slut, fag.
And at the same time we were being told what we were, we were being asked, what do you want to be when you grow up? I always thought that was an unfair question. It presupposes that we can’t be what we already are.
We were kids. When I was a kid, I wanted to be a man. I wanted a registered retirement savings plan that would keep me in candy long enough to make old age sweet. When I was a kid, I wanted to shave.
Now, not so much. When I was eight, I wanted to be a marine biologist. When I was nine, I saw the movie Jaws and thought to myself, no thank you. When I was 10, I was told that my parents left because they didn’t want me.
When I was 11, I wanted to be left alone. When I was 12, I wanted to die. When I was 13, I wanted to kill a kid. When I was 14, I was asked to seriously consider a career path.
I said, I’d like to be a writer, and they said, choose something realistic. So I said, professional wrestler, and they said, don’t be stupid. See, they asked me what I wanted to be, then told me what not to be, and I wasn’t the only one. We were being told that we somehow must become what we are not, sacrificing what we are to inherit the masquerade of what we will be.
I was being told to accept the identity that others will give me. And I wonder, what made my dreams so easy to dismiss? Granted, my dreams are shy, because they’re Canadian. My dreams are self-conscious and overly apologetic, the standing alone at the high school dance, and they’ve never been kissed.
See, my dreams got called names, too. Silly, foolish, impossible. But I kept dreaming I was going to be a wrestler. I had it all figured out.
I was going to be the garbage man. My finishing move was going to be the trash compactor. My saying was going to be, I’m taking out the trash. And then this guy, Duke the Dumpster Drosy, stole my entire shtick. I was crushed. It was just by a trash compactor.
I thought to myself, what now? Where do I turn? Poetry. Like a boomerang, the thing I loved came back to me. One of the first lines of poetry I can remember writing was in response to a world that demanded I hate myself. From age 15 to 18, I hated myself for becoming the thing that I loathed, a bully.
When I was 19, I wrote, I will love myself despite the ease with which I lean toward the opposite. Standing up for yourself doesn’t have to mean embracing violence. When I was a kid, I traded in homework assignments for friendship, then gave each friend a late slip for never showing up on time, and in most cases, not at all. I gave myself a hall pass to get through each broken promise.
And I remember this plan born out of frustration from a kid who kept calling me yogi, then pointed my tummy and said, too many picnic baskets. Turns out it’s not that hard to trick someone. And one day before class, I said, yeah, you can copy my homework. And I gave him all the wrong answers that I’d written down the night before.
He got his paper back expecting a near perfect score and couldn’t believe it when he looked across the room at me and held up a zero. I knew I didn’t have to hold up my paper of 28 out of 30, but my satisfaction was complete when he looked at me puzzled and I thought to myself, smarter than the average bear motherfucker. This is who I am. This is how I stand up for myself.
When I was a kid, I used to think that pork chops and karate chops were the same thing. I thought they were both pork chops. Because my grandmother thought it was cute and because they were my favorite, she let me keep doing it. It’s not really a big deal.
One day before I realized fat kids are not designed to climb trees, I fell out of a tree and bruised the right side of my body. I didn’t want to tell my grandmother about it because I was scared I’d get in trouble for playing somewhere I shouldn’t have been. A few days later, the gym teacher noticed the bruise and I got sent to the principal’s office. From there, I was sent to another small room with a really nice lady who asked me all kinds of questions about my life at home.
I saw no reason to lie. As far as I was concerned, life was pretty good. I told her whenever I’m sad, my grandmother gives me karate chops. This led to a full-scale investigation and I was removed from the house for three days so they finally decided to ask how I got the bruises.
News of this silly little story quickly spread through the school and I earned my first nickname, Pork Chop.
To this day, I hate pork chops. I’m not the only kid who grew up this way. Surrounded by people who used to say that rhyme about sticks and stones, as if broken bones hurt more than the names we got called, we got called them all.
So we grew up believing no one would ever fall in love with us, that we’d be lonely forever, that we’d never meet someone to make us feel like the sun was something they built for us in their tool shed. So broken heartstrings bled the blues and we tried to empty ourselves so we’d feel nothing. Don’t tell me that hurts less than a broken bone, that an ingrown life is something surgeons can cut away, that there’s no way for it to metastasize, it does. She was eight years old, our first day of grade three when she got called ugly.
We both got moved to the back of class so we’d stop getting bombarded by spitballs. But the school halls were a battleground. We found ourselves outnumbered day after wretched day. We used to stay inside for recess because outside was worse.
Outside we’d have to rehearse running away or learn to stay still like statues, giving no clues that we were there in grade five. She taped a sign to the front of her desk that read, beware of dog. To this day, despite a loving husband, she doesn’t think she’s beautiful because of a birthmark that takes up less than half her face. Kids used to say she looks like a wrong answer that someone tried to erase but couldn’t quite get the job done.
And they’ll never understand that she’s raising two kids whose definition of beauty begins with the word mom. Because they see her heart before they see her skin, because they’ll never always been amazing. Was a broken branch grafted onto a different family tree. Adopted, not because his parents opted for a different destiny.
He was three when he became a mixed drink of one part left alone and two parts tragedy. Started therapy in eighth grade. Had a personality made up of tests and pills. Lived like the uphills were mountains and the downhills were cliffs.
Before fifth suicidal, a tidal wave of antidepressants and an adolescent being called pauper. One part because of the pills, 99 parts because of the cruelty. He tried to kill himself in grade 10 when a kid who could still go home to mom and dad had the audacity to tell him, get over it. As if depression is something that could be remedied by any of the contents found in a first aid kit.
To this day, he is a stick of TNT lit from both ends. He could describe to in detail the way the sky bends in a moment before it’s about to fall. And despite an army of friends who all call him an inspiration, he remains a conversation piece between people who can’t understand sometimes being drug free has less to do with addiction and more to do with sanity. We weren’t the only kids who grew up this way.
To this day, kids are still being called names. The classics were, hey stupid, hey spaz, seems like every school has an arsenal of names getting updated every year. And if a kid breaks into school and no one around chooses to hear it, they make a sound. They’re just background noise from a soundtrack stuck on repeat when people say things like, kids can be cruel.
Every school was a big top circus tent and the pecking order went from acrobats to lion tamers, from clowns to carnies, all of these miles ahead of who we were. We were freaks, lobster claw boys and bearded ladies, oddities, juggling depression and loneliness, playing solitaire, spin the bottle, trying to kiss the wounded parts of ourselves and heal. But at night, while the others slept, we kept walking the tightrope. It was practice.
Yes, some of us fell, but I want to tell them that all of this is just debris left over when we finally decide to smash all the things we thought we used to be. And if you can’t see anything beautiful about yourself, get a better mirror. Look a little closer, stare a little longer, because there’s something inside you that made you keep trying despite everyone who told you to quit. You built a cast around your broken heart and signed it yourself.
You signed it. They were wrong. Because maybe you didn’t belong to a group or a clique. Maybe they decided to pick you last for basketball or everything.
Maybe you used to bring bruises and broken teeth to show and tell, but never told. Because how can you hold your ground if everyone around you wants to bury you beneath it? You have to believe that they were wrong. They have to be wrong.
Why else would we still be here? We grew up learning to cheer on the underdog because we see ourselves in them. We stem from a root planted in the belief that we are not what we were called. We are not abandoned cars stalled out and sitting empty on some highway.
And if in some way we are, don’t worry. We only got out to walk and get gas. We are graduating members from the class of we made it, not the faded echoes of voices crying out names will never hurt me. Of course they did.
But our lives will only ever always continue to be a balancing act that has less to do with pain and more to do with beauty.
SUMMARY OF THIS TALK:
Shane Koyczan’s powerful talk, titled “To This Day… For The Bullied And Beautiful,” revolves around the themes of identity, self-acceptance, and the lasting impact of childhood bullying. In this moving and introspective speech, Koyczan shares his personal journey and insights, emphasizing the importance of embracing one’s true self and resisting the hurtful labels placed upon us by others.
Hiding Your Heart: Koyczan begins by recounting how he used to hide his heart under the bed as a child, influenced by the fear of it being broken. He humorously notes that under the bed is not an ideal hiding spot.
Defining Ourselves: He reflects on how, from a young age, society expects individuals to define themselves, and the pressure to conform to certain standards can be overwhelming.
The Impact of Names: Koyczan highlights how hurtful labels and name-calling, such as “geek,” “fatty,” “slut,” and “fag,” shape one’s self-perception and self-worth.
Dreams and Aspirations: He discusses the unrealistic expectations placed on children, asking them what they want to be when they grow up, and how this question can be unfair and discouraging.
Self-Discovery Through Adversity: Koyczan shares personal anecdotes about his evolving dreams, including wanting to be a marine biologist, and how life’s experiences shaped his aspirations.
Discovering Poetry: After facing setbacks and identity crises, Koyczan discovers poetry as a means of self-expression and a way to stand up for himself.
Bullying and Revenge: He humorously recounts a childhood incident where he tricked a bully into copying his incorrect homework, finding a unique way to stand up for himself.
The Power of Words: Koyczan addresses the impact of hurtful words and the belief that “sticks and stones may break my bones, but names will never hurt me,” highlighting that words can be just as damaging.
Stories of Resilience: He shares stories of individuals who faced bullying and discrimination but found strength in their uniqueness and the love of their families.
The Power of Self-Compassion: Koyczan emphasizes the importance of self-love and acceptance, even when the world can be unkind. He acknowledges that it’s okay to struggle and seek help.
The Underdog’s Journey: Koyczan discusses how society often cheers for the underdog because we see ourselves in them, and how we should challenge the negative narratives we’ve internalized.
A Balancing Act: He concludes by stating that life is a balancing act, filled with beauty and pain, but it’s crucial to focus on the beauty within ourselves and others.
In his talk, Shane Koyczan delivers a heartfelt message that resonates with anyone who has experienced bullying or struggled with self-acceptance. He encourages individuals to look beyond hurtful labels and embrace their true selves, reminding us all that we are not defined by the negative words of others. His words inspire hope and empowerment, emphasizing the beauty that exists within each of us.