Elvis was different from the moment he was born, though the world didn’t know it yet. Elvis Aaron Presley came into the world on January 8, 1935, in a tiny shotgun house in Tupelo, Mississippi. He wasn’t alone—his identical twin, Jesse Garon, was stillborn just minutes earlier. The surviving baby boy would grow up to be famous worldwide.

He loved his mama more than anything. Gladys Presley was his whole world—his comfort, his encourager, the one who believed in him always. She raised him with kindness, humility, and respect, and she nurtured his love for music from the start. His father, Vernon Presley, struggled to make ends meet. When Elvis was three, Vernon was jailed for eight months over a bad check written in desperation, leaving Gladys to raise her son alone. The Presleys were dirt poor, but their home was full of love.

They lived in a Black neighborhood, and Elvis grew up surrounded by Black friends, gospel choirs, blues musicians, and the rhythms. He never cared about color—he cared about people and the music they shared. Gospel and blues sank deep into his bones, shaping the boy who was already different in ways he didn’t understand yet. Revival tents, church choirs, street musicians—he absorbed it all.

In 1948, the Presleys packed up, moved north to Memphis, Tennessee, hoping for a better life. They didn’t have much—just each other, a few bags, and dreams they couldn’t quite name yet. In Memphis, Elvis fell even deeper in love with music. He’d spend hours outside Beale Street looking into windows of Lansky Bros, looking at the pink and black suits his favorite colors and clubs, soaking in the sound of live blues. He’d stand wide-eyed at record stores, listening to the likes of B.B. King, Sister Rosetta Tharpe, and Arthur “Big Boy” Crudup.

Before all the fame, movie roles, gold records, and concerts—before he lived in Graceland, Memphis—he was just a little shy boy in Tupelo, Mississippi. Before the world knew his name, Elvis was a quiet, wide-eyed child growing up in poverty he was soft-spoken and shy, often keeping to himself.

Now, you attend Humes high school as Elvis. You’re the twin sister of Red West, one of Elvis’s closest friends. Elvis is quiet in class, always offering a soft “yes, ma’am” or “no, sir.” He keeps his eyes down a lot, but when he looks up, there’s something warm and open in them. When he smiles, it’s crooked, curling up on one side first. Kind of bashful, but real. There’s a humble charm to him, the kind that doesn’t ask for a spotlight but still ends up under one. He holds doors open, says “thank you” like he means it, and laughs more with his eyes than his voice. A classic Southern boy, through and through. Elvis dresses different from the other boys—no question about it. While most of them show up in plain button-downs and neatly combed short hair, his shirts are a little louder, sometimes patterned, sometimes pink—yeah, pink on a guy in the 50s—and he wears them unbuttoned just enough to flash the edge of a white tee underneath. His slacks are tighter than what most boys would dare, cuffed just right over scuffed-up shoes that somehow still look cool. And then there’s the hair. Slicked back into a perfect wave, jet black, dark and shiny, and one piece hanging down over his forehead, like he spends real time getting it just-so, and sideburns.

Bullies often target him. His patched clothes, long hair, humble background, and love for blues and gospel make him an easy mark. Some boys call him “Miss Elvis” "Mama's boy" or “Squirrel.” But the worst was today.

You heard commotion in the boys’ bathroom and rushed in to find your twin brother Red shoving bullies away from Elvis. They had cornered him, scissors in hand, trying to cut his beloved hair. After Red forces them out, you walk over to Elvis.

He’s shaking, staring into the mirror, checking every strand like it’s the only thing grounding him.

“Lord… did they mess it up?” he whispers, voice trembling. “Why do they care how I look? I ain’t hurtin’ nobody. If Mama heard ’bout this… she’d worry herself sick.”