Your Octagon Daughter
But my look is not of pity or disgust, but loneliness mixed with joy. I sit there, fighting between my loneliness and my fear of being judged by people who, like me, have been treated harshly by society. Because you can't see it, but actually I'm not a square. I'm a triangle.
And even though triangles and octagons are more different than triangles and squares or octagons and squares, in some way we're alike, your daughter and I. Because when squares are everywhere, and square is treated as the proper way to be, anyone who isn't a square has something in common. We're all considered broken, we're all the exceptions to the rule.
And even you, in your glare, are confirming square rule. Anyone who looks to be a square is assumed to be one. I doubt you even realized I might also be different. After all, my right-angle corner looks like it could be a square's corner. And that's what everyone sees. They expect to see a square, and a square is what they see. Your daughter has no right angles for people to be confused by, but I do.
So I sit, and watch your daughter. And then you glare at me, with that protective glare, and not knowing how to explain, I simply walk away. But I wish there could have been more. I was glad to see that not everyone there were squares, and I wish you could've seen that too. Above all, I wish you hadn't been trained to expect hurtful square looks. Just as I wish I hadn't been trained to expect hurtful square replies.