I don't belong; I feel strange, what am I doing here? These are thoughts and questions that have plagued me since I was a little girl. Perhaps it was because we moved so much.

I went to five different schools in the fifth grade. That was the record for one year. Most years it was only two or maybe three.

We traveled light, taking only what we could carry in the trunk of the car or strapped to the top. I remember coming home from school and seeing the car all packed up and ready to go. I didn't even get to tell anyone I was leaving. Anything I may have collected had to be left because there wouldn't be enough room in the car.

Our worldly goods consisted of a box of pots and pans and a few dishes. We had just enough for the four of us. We had a few clothes, enough to get by, and some bedding. My brother and I each had an army cot that folded up so they packed up nicely on top of the car. If we happened to get lucky enough to acquire a mansion with two rooms, my brother would share the bedroom with my parents and my bed would be in what was used as kitchen, dining room, living room. Actually, my cot would double as a couch in the daytime and my bed at night. If I needed to go bed earlier than anyone else, my little corner would just be curtained off. That practice did keep some of the light out of my eyes but didn't shut off my hearing. I don't think they realized what a light sleeper I was.

The reason we moved so much during those years was my Father. He discovered the berry farms in Oregon as well as hops, beans, tomatoes, etc. Then there was California with the cotton and there was Idaho with the potatoes. There was Kansas with wheat and on and on it went. When one crop was over or he heard about something somewhere else we would be off. When he took a notion to move, he was ready right then. I think we could pack our belongings and be gone in less than an hour.

When my brother and I went to school, there were always a few children of migrant workers, like us, then there were the kids whose parents owned the farms and lived in the big houses while we lived in the little cabins that were furnished to the workers. The jolt to my psyche was on my 12th birthday.

I was having a good time at school, I had several friends and in my mind all was well in my world. One of my friends decided to have a party for my birthday. Her mother said it was fine with her and she helped decorate one of the cabins they had for their workers for the party. It was a nice party as far as that goes but at some point, this feeling of something not being right came over me. I looked around at the party goers and suddenly realized, rightly or wrongly, they just came because it was a party, not for me. I didn't belong there. I lived in a small cabin like the one they were using for a play house.

I became a little confused, somewhat embarrassed and found myself wishing I could be someplace else, any place except there. I feigned a headache and left. I cried all the way home. Sometimes, for no apparent reason, I still experience those feelings.

Learn more about this author, Joyce Bueter.
Click here to send this author comments or questions.

---

Add your voice

Know something about Reflections: Feeling like an outsider?
We want to hear your view. Write now!