" It's no wonder why I would always fall, trip, stumble and or crash into something, I couldn't see. Oh, I'm sorry,my name is Spit, yeah I know what you're thinking, 'Spit, what kind of name is that, I get it. Let me explain. Since I can't see well I'm always experiencing mishaps. A lot of those mishaps include dirt, dust, foods of all kinds, drinks, and from time to time glass in my mouth, hence Spit since I do a lot of that. Nevertheless people tend to dig it plus the real name Ralph Demmiton Douglas-James well just never stuck with me-the whole 'Ralph' thing, I mean shouldn't there be an F in the name , there's a T in Spit. My mom calls me Spit, it took a while but she came around my grandmother on the other hand is not having it.In fact she will announce to all that can hear that her only grandchild was named after her long lost husband, my Papa, and her only son that was killed in combat that I never got to meet.She says it with pride trying to make sure everyone knows my name,including my father and grandfather if their listening. So that's the name history, and the Spit of it, ha, see it's catchy. Now let me tell you a story about myself, and the things I see through my Broken Glasses.

The first thing you should know about my broken glasses is that they didn’t break all at once.
T They cracked slowly, like a bad joke you don’t realize is offensive until you’ve already laughed.

I was young when I figured out something was off. Not wrong—off. Like when a radio station almost comes in clear but never quite locks. Everyone else seemed to move with confidence, weaving through desks, doorframes, people, life. Me? I moved like the world kept rearranging itself when I wasn’t looking.

I tripped over air.
h Ran into corners that had lived in the same place my whole life.
e Reached for things that weren’t where I swore they were a second ago.

People would say, “Watch where you’re going,” as if I hadn’t been trying my hardest to do exactly that.

The day the glasses actually broke—the first memorable time, anyway—I was at school. I remember because schools are loud in a way that doesn’t care if you’re confused. Chairs scraping, lockers slamming, laughter that feels aimed even when it’s not. I had my head down, as usual, focused on keeping my feet under me. That’s when the world lunged.

A doorframe.
Metal.
f Fast.

I didn’t feel pain right away. I felt embarrassment first, which tells you everything you need to know about being a kid. Then came the taste—blood, dust, something sharp I couldn’t identify. I spit without thinking. Again. And again. Someone yelled my name, except it wasn’t Spit yet, it was the long one. The important one. The one my grandmother would’ve approved of.

A teacher crouched down in front of me, her face swimming in and out of focus. “Can you see?” she asked.

That was a funny question.
i I could see.
r Just not the way she meant.

The nurse gave me a cup, and I filled it with whatever didn’t belong in my mouth. She said I was lucky. People always say that. Lucky it wasn’t worse. Lucky I didn’t lose an eye. Lucky I didn’t need stitches. I nodded like I agreed, even though I didn’t know what I was agreeing to.

That’s when I noticed the crack in my glasses. A thin white line slicing through my vision, bending everything just enough to make the world feel dishonest. No one noticed it but me. I didn’t tell anyone. I didn’t want new ones. New meant questions. Questions meant explanations. Explanations meant standing still while everyone looked at me.

I learned something that day: if you keep moving, people don’t ask as much.

So I moved.
s Carefully.
t Poorly.
Forward anyway.

The cracks multiplied over time. Not just in the lenses, but in the way I learned to look at things. I stopped trusting first impressions. I listened more than I watched. I memorized spaces instead of reacting to them. I learned that tone tells you more than posture, and silence says more than faces ever could.

I also learned how to laugh fast.

If I laughed first, it meant I was in control. If I laughed first, the fall was mine, the mess was mine, the spit—unfortunately—was mine too. People relax when you beat them to the punchline. They don’t realize the joke is doing damage control.

By the time my mom started calling me Spit, it felt earned. It fit the way my life already worked—messy, mouth full, always clearing something out so I could keep going. She said it gently at first, like a test. I didn’t correct her. Names stick when they’re true.

My grandmother hated it. She said names carried weight, history, sacrifice. She wasn’t wrong. She just didn’t realize I was carrying all of that already—just not on my face.

Broken glasses don’t mean you see less.
t They mean you see differently.

And sometimes, if you’re not careful, they teach you how to survive instead of how to stop and ask for help.

But that came later.

For now, all I knew was this: the world wasn’t clear, my mouth tasted like metal and dirt more often than it should, and somehow… I was still standing.

And that had to count for something.