Grade 6: In my opinion the sole purpose of middle school was so that all of the adolescent miscreants could be forced into one awkward prison. The proof was in the cafeteria, a minefield of strange social customs and noisy kids who seemed to enjoy nothing more than screwing up another person’s day. At least those were my thoughts when I first entered the overly powerful axe scented school. But at the table where I now sat around with friends new and old in all directions, my opinion was quickly morphing.
Sure, most people were immature and concerned only with themselves, but here I was laughing along with them, perhaps I was simply pretentious and carping to see the flaws in the school. In the first week I had been talked into ski bus, track and field, and cross country by my friends. All things I never would have dreamed of doing by my own free will. And I had a feeling I would enjoy them all. The topic at my table was usually concerningthings I had plenty of interest in. Important things, no longer just soccer, football, and where I went on vacation. The likes of those topics barely reached me in this sanctuary.
And with these people I felt right, felt like I had finally found those who I genuinely wanted to see each and every day. That was the perk of middle school, probably the only decent thing, it gave me an excuse to see my friends. Grade 7: Speeches are the worst. I have always hated them and always will, no doubt about it. And so when I heard Mrs. Selby mention that we would be memorizing a poem and reciting it to the class, dressed up and in character, I died a little bit on the inside and my hands began to shake. I could just imagine a little bit of my spirit going up in flames with a mushroom cloud.
And then there was the due date: tomorrow. I sunk into the soft folds of my sweatshirt like a turtle into its shell, trying to find shelter in the cotton. There was no such luck, Mrs Selby had already taken out her red cup full of popsicle sticks, each with a blue name written on it, sentencing the one who was pulled to certain death; or at least to going first. I listened intently, wondering who the first victim would be. She reached into the cup and stirred the sticks, then gripped one and slowly pulled it out, using the suspense to the maximum effect. Silence and dread hung so thickly in the air that when she spoke it made us flinch.
Sam, you’re up first. ” Sighs of relief sounded across the room, although my own sigh was not one of relief, but of acceptance of my death sentence. Of all thirty and some odd number of kids, my name was the one pulled. Fantastic. Thanks Mrs. Selby! And so the convoluted and overly complicated excuses began in my head, thinking of reasons I could get out of the speech. I had a spanish and math test the next day, I had to go or I would miss them. I had to find a way to get out of that class and that class only. I spent the night preparing for it, dreading the moment I would have to get up in front of everyone.
By the time I had arrived in class I still had zero idea what I was going to do. My prop was a ‘spear’, a wood pole with some fabric wrapped around the top holding on a pointy cardboard tip. I ran my hand over the fabric and felt something poke my hand from under it, but ignored it as Mrs. Selby beckoned me to the front of the class. I slowly stood up, looking like I had acquired some serious arthritis and aged seventy years in the moments I had been sitting down. I leaned onto the cane and then pushed up in a final burst, putting my weight onto the cane. Suddenly I felt a sharp shooting pain drive into my hand, and then a tingling.
I had heard the fabric rip and now, as I looked at the back of my hand, I could barely see the tip of a nail driving through my skin. A nail now attached the pole to my hand. A little trail of crimson liquid came down from the entry and exit point, crawling down the pole. “Hey Mrs. Selby,” I said, trying to keep calm, “I believe I need to go to the office. ” She nodded in response, mouth agape. I never did give that damn speech. Grade 8: I was wearing a hawaiian shirt, blue with white flowery shapes, and khaki pants that were way too skinny for someone as tall as me. I had grown upwards but yet to grow outwards.
But it was middle school, it would be strange to see someone who wasn’t awkwardly moving around as they gained familiarity with their constantly changing shape. I walked towards the school with a strut in my step, I was an eighth grader, which gave me the coolness of seniority over the sixth and seventh graders. The school may have been coated in yellowing paint that peeled with a beckoning scratch, and bathrooms that frequently went out of order for spans of weeks at a time, but I was the king of it. And so as I approached the double doors and met up with a few of my friends on the way in, I was ready to do whatever happened at the dances.
I was clueless; in my two, almost three, years at the school I had never gone to one of the silly get togethers. I was a bigger fan of sitting on a train bridge listening to music with a few friends than having my ears pounded out by blasting music that was five years outdated. But still, you had to go to at least one dance, or at least I had been told so by my highschool friends who had managed to escape the wretched halls before I had the chance. I flashed my student ID at the “bouncer”, our councilor, who offered a friendly smile and motioned for us to go right on in.
Inside the cafeteria was hectic, green. ed, blue, and white lights flashing. A disco ball twirled, sending bizarre reflections of light across the room. When I payed attention to the people I couldn’t help but laugh, there were two sides it seemed, a side populated by boys and one by girls, both looking at eachother but acting as if they were separated by some unbreakable wall. A chaperone or two stuck to the walls, clearly not pleased by the choice of ear shattering high paced tunes. I agreed with them. I saw some more of my friends and wandered over to them, shrugging off the feeling that I wasn’t supposed to talk to the girls.
They were friends, there is nothing against being friends with the opposite gender. A few of them hugged me and smiled brightly before glancing over my shoulder, I turned to see what they were looking at. One of the chaperones was promptly approaching me, “you can’t be over here bud,” she said. “Why not? ” I asked, genuinely curious as to what I had possibly done wrong. “No public displays of affection. ” “Why? ” I asked again. “Don’t ask why, just do what I say. I’m an adult. ” Now I was really confused. I knew that older people liked to feel in control, but this was ridiculous.
“Okay, okay. Hey guys you want to get out of here? I asked, done with the strobe lights and obnoxious adults already. They nodded, and we walked out together to the chaperone’s dismay. My first and last short lived “dance” was over. I had had a lot of fun for sure. Grade 9: This was the year that determined the rest of my life, at least according to my Dad, councilor, some of my teachers, family friends, and strangers that decided to strike up a conversation. It had, at very least, taught me apropos myself, and helped me determine who I wanted to be. I acquired a taste in music, indie alternative, which proved to be my saviour when it came to motivation.
I started painting daily again. I became involved in helping to provide the homeless with food. My horizons were widening at an exponential rate. I usually spent my department assistant class simply thinking of where I wanted to go in the world and how I could possibly get there. At least when I wasn’t cleaning up after the biology class dissecting pig fetuses. That was certainly an experience, but even that taught me about myself. Blood doesn’t really bother me apparently, but horrendous smells certainly do. And it smelled like something had died in the classroom. Twenty eight things actually, and they had.
Well not died in there, but been dead in the room. Same scent. I gained a whole new respect for people who ate liver, but I also was really curious towards their sanity. Maybe I could be a doctor then, if I didn’t have to speak in front of crowds. I fell apart in a Spanish speech. I am extremely curious as to if I will pass out in advanced communication skills. If bets could be placed that I would then I would assure people it’s a sound investment. I can talk, in fact I typically can’t stop talking, and I am in no way shy but speeches continual trip me up. I learned school is only as difficult as you make it.
If you are okay with a B or C then it isn’t half as stressful, but I also learned I like earning good marks. Plus I need a scholarship or I will be stuck in community college for two years. Community college isn’t necessarily an inferior thing, but I would like a higher achieving learning environment in college. If I even go to college. That is a decision that I am sure I will be forced to make by the end of the year, as I was forced to plan the rest of my highschool career when even I don’t know what I want. But now my decisions make me who I am, and I have learned that I have some degree of control over who that is.