And if I do not keep moving, I will pass away. They call this ram ventilation, a shark’s way of breathing. My invisible gills demand the same method of survival. Since hatching from your womb, I have been burdened to forward momentum, a squirming force to be reckoned with. Raised in a realm above sea-level, however, the current has always worked against my nature.
Most mornings, you barely squeeze in the chance to slather sunscreen over my ampullae of Lorenzini—freckles, you insist I call them—before I’m out of the door and down the street, bike pedals whirling, thrusting through the stagnant humidity. I may not bear fins like my aquatic ancestors, but the sweat I shed tastes of the sea. Marine familiarity, a restless scene. Inherent muscle memory urges me to continue on, past the front of the school, past the park, and past the fast food joints. Past the gas stations, past the woods, and past the town border. On and on, beyond state lines, never stopping until my toe-shaped fins touch the fizzy surf.
Logic is a habit you’ve instilled in me, however. I settle for circling the perimeter of the building until my muscles scream for mercy or until security guards scream after me.
In the classroom, society expects me to conform to anthropocentric ideologies: sit still—a manner my species physically cannot obey. Doesn’t matter that I’ve just biked the scenic route to school. For a shark, it’s move or die. I’m a fish out of water, floundering at my graffitied desk after exhausting all bathroom privileges to wander the hallways.
From what I’ve overheard you whispering to neighbors and folks at our church, my teachers exchange concerns about the pacing, the rocking, the bouncing, claiming my fidgety movements are a detriment to my development and too much of a distraction to my peers. They’ve got it all wrong. The girls sporting dolphin cackles in the corner are the ones to be wary of.
“See that kid over there? Yeah, that one. The boy that can’t sit still,” I make out of their clique-exclusive echolocation. “Stay away from him. Guy’s got issues.”
If it were socially acceptable to bite, I would.
That is a common misconception about my kind, though. I may bear a sharp-toothed grimace, but I am not violent-natured unless provoked. Even then, sharks are more afraid of humans than humans are of sharks. Often you prompt me to suck it up, to conform to warm-blooded standards out of my comfort zone for the sake of making friends. You don’t get it. My ancestors have roamed this planet solo, hundreds of millions of years before any mammal, and they’ve managed well enough.
Y’know, you yourself aren’t the best at showing affection. I get my skin takes on an abrasive texture, but a bit of compassion here and there won’t hurt. Just a few kind words to validate my existence.
Deep in the night, I thrash under sweaty bed sheets. The only way you get me to fall asleep is by dangling me from the edge of the mattress, flipping me head-side-down and feet-side-up, evoking a trance of tonic immobility. Assuming I’ve surrendered to human dreams, you admit to my father that it may be time to seek professional help for my condition.
What condition is that? Do you not see traces of shark in yourself? Through weary slits of nictitating membrane, I watch your shadow roam back and forth past my bedroom door.