Mail is welcome.
gryffyn@there.net | index of journals | home
|
I don't know why, but I had a dream last night that actually happened to
me about 14 years ago. It was near the beginning of the school year, and
I was in 7th grade. At lunchtime that year we got to choose our own
seating assignments, which were then written down on a chart for the
lunchroom monitors. I sat at a table with all the "cool" girls, all the
girls that I wanted to be friends with because I desperately wanted to fit
in, to belong, to not feel like an awkward imposter any longer. I sat
down quietly, as was my nature, and I ate silently, afraid of being
discovered and shoved out. But they ignored me. No one spoke to me for two weeks. They shrieked and giggled and called over new friends and we all scooted down on the bench to make room. They talked about all the boys I really liked, except these girls actually had stories of the boys returing affection, kissing them, feeling up their budding breasts in the hallway when no one was looking. They talked about clothes, and a new concept to me at the time: fashion. They seemed worldly, older, cool. And they deigned to let me sit at their table. I wasn't quite in bliss, but I was content to sit there and let residual coolness mist over me. One day the monitor came up and noticed that we had one too many girls on our bench. She asked us which one was not on the chart, and immediately every girl at the table pointed to me. I shook my head, mute. I was on the chart. The chart was produced and it was discovered that another, much more popular girl was the extra girl on the bench. As the monitor talked to her about finding another seat somewhere else, all the girls I admired so much turned on me and finally spoke directly to me: "Why are you sitting here, anyway?" "Nobody LIKES you here, why do you want to sit here?" "Nerd, what are you doing here?" "Go away and let someone we LIKE sit here." If you don't leave, you'll be sorry!" We DON'T like you...time to stop pretending!" By this time the monitor had turned to me and had started defending me. Me, I was completely quiet, still. My name on that sheet was no longer a triumph but a miserable failure, a ticket to resentment and possibly loathing (and most likely spitballs in my hair and elbows in my head when I stood up from my locker, too). I had fooled myself into thinking I was accepted when all I really was was tolerated and ignored. I had grown cancerous, time to rub out my name on that chart. I had to argue with the lunchroom monitor to let me off that chart. She was standing up for me, bless her heart, and trying to let me sit where I had so desperately wanted to sit. Somehow I found enough voice to explain to her that she couldn't protect me from what would happen if I stayed at that point, and that I'd rather sit where people didn't hate me so much just for being there. She relented and I moved to a much less popular table, third or fourth choice because everyone was already settled in and there were only a few spcaes left. The moral of the story? I dunno. The Homer Simpson moral is: Never try. Trying's hard. One thing you have to say for junior high girls: they may be cruel, yes, but at least they're upfront. And honest. | ||
| Previous
| Next Day by Day | Journal Index | Current Entry Home |