My First Day of Middle School Part 2
Day ONE.... and I was ready to conquer.
The near-autumn day was clear and calm, and I took in a breath of innocent fresh air. And when I say innocent, I mean "ignorant." The school was a former high school, 2 stories tall and its elongated halls of classrooms were anchored by a gymnasium on one end near the parking lot, and a theater and auditorium on the opposite end. After Zip-whooshing myself and my fancy pants to the front of the school, I found myself in a long line of nervous and aspiring seventh graders, all anxiously waiting to be let in the door. This phenomena did, indeed, not repeat itself. We were only excited to enter on day one, collectively. I didn’t recognize anyone nearby, which was no surprise. Given my social skills, I was fully committed to this new adventure, convinced I’d soon be best friends with at least a few of them, because who wouldn’t want to be friends with me, right? I did not look anyone straight in the eye, but had faith that this weird feeling was a moment in time and the moment would pass, never to be felt again. Once the doors opened so my new life could finally begin, I figured this strange, uncomfortable feeling would vanish.
Looking back, I've come to learn this feeling is known as "awkwardness," but I'm a slow learner, so the days were only going to become more awkward.
Then I spotted her. Shannon. My neighbor, playmate, and occasional on-again, off-again friend from first grade. Standing a few kids ahead of me, she turned around and greeted me with a cheerful “hi,” and I replied in kind. But as we both nervously stood amidst the sea of new students, she blurted out, “What do you have all over your face?” At that moment, I felt my blood boiling.
In sixth grade, makeup was a no-go. But after my older sister, Jane, insisted it was essential for popularity (obviously the key to every 12-year-old boy’s heart), I added it to my “must-do” list and started practicing. We had a whole summer of makeup boot camp, and when Shannon stopped by for a friendly visit, Jane enthusiastically told her about our plan, preparing me for the highly anticipated “big kids school”, which would undoubtedly change my life. Jane even told tales of seeing a boy with a beard in Junior High. One must be prepared to counter such a man. Shannon agreed with our efforts and complimented me on my look. She even encouraged me, saying, “Definitely wear it to school; it looks good.” Was this Shannon’s version of a mean girl tactic, or were we both just a bit clueless? I wasn’t sure, but her blunt comment stung like a bee at a picnic. I decided to brush it off in a deliberate effort to not let anyone ruin my new and improved life journey. And also, I secretly vowed to lay off the makeup, because who needs that kind of drama? Besides, the line was moving and I was approaching the lady at the door.
The nice office lady was handing out blue-and-white-striped 4x6 cards with our class schedules on them. Her kindness was a refreshing contrast to the earlier comment, and she pointed me in the direction of my “homeroom.” I glanced down at my card. “Room 112, Miss Ripley.”
I was standing on the launch pad of life, ready to take off! Mission Control, here I come!
My homeroom teacher, Miss Ripley, greeted me with warmth, and then seated me at a small table facing the chalkboards. She was also listed on my schedule as my math teacher. Despite the mean-girl prank from Shannon that made me swear off makeup, I was riding a wave of confidence as I watched my classmates from five other elementary schools filter in, all quietly. Perhaps, they were ready to make new friends like me, or maybe they were secretly plotting their own social takeovers. I couldn’t sense anything other than my own excitement. And then, I recognized one of the students entering the room.
Among the students making their entrance was Wiley, the bane of my childhood existence. He was the son of my mom's close friend, and while we had shared many playdates, (at our mom's request, not ours) he loved nothing more than torturing me. I assumed the role of the disgusted girl who wanted nothing to do with him. As I sat at my table, enjoying the parade of students, I suddenly realized that Miss Ripley had created seating arrangements as smartly as she could without knowing her students yet, arranging a boy next to a girl at each two-seat table. Much to my dismay, Wiley, a boy, was assigned to sit next to me, a girl. I shrank in my chair a little and pretended not to notice him. I had big plans for my time at this institution where I would rise to meet my destiny, and Wiley was definitely not part of that plan. Therefore, I would not need to waste my valuable time and energy on him. I quickly learned he was excellent at math, which only made me more determined to hide myself and my work from him like top secret government documents. Miss Ripley introduced herself as a teacher in her seventh year, sweet yet firm, like a mother hen with a ruler.
And we have lift-off.
Next, I moved on to science with Mr. Horton, thankful to be rid of Wiley. However, my new seatmate, Michael, had a knack for tapping me on the shoulder from the opposite side of where he was sitting and laughing every time I turned to look. My ignorance knew no bounds, and I fell for this prank for several weeks. I had no idea this was flirting; all I felt was irritation. My hypothesis of becoming pretty and popular and making new friends was not promising during second period.
Then came English class with Mrs. Dickman, a tall, methodical teacher with tight curls that clung to her head in the shape of a snow cone. She got right to business, It was in the third period, where I finally felt a little more at ease, probably because a kind girl was now sitting close to me instead of a boy. This is where I met Lisa, who shared my birthday, and we quickly became friends, finally gaining traction to support my hypothesis that making new friends isn’t as hard as rocket science.
Art class with Mrs. Zuelke followed, where I discovered my complete lack of artistic skill and awareness of the craft. I mean, what was this mystical thing called “perspective and horizon line?” It was the first I had heard of it. Mrs. Z was sweet and created a relaxed atmosphere, especially when she allowed us to play records. Our go-to album in fourth period, was John Cougar “Hurt So Good” , which felt pretty appropriate for my art skills and lack thereof.
Lunch was the highlight, (and not just on Taco Bar Tuesday), where I gathered with friends, including my BFF Colleen, who had formed a crew from her other classes. Colleen and I walked to school each morning and home each afternoon together, and since we did not have any classes together, we brought our new friends to lunch, creating a major conglomerate. We didn’t become jealous of each other; instead, we shared all of our newly found friends, making our social lives even better than before. One would think there would be no drama from this description, but just wait, this is middle school, after all. I would make sure that narrative didn’t last!
Gym Class
After lunch, I dreaded PE with Mrs. Blenkarn, who enforced a uniform policy that felt like a violation of everything I held dear. And by dear, I mean, privacy and decency. We had no mantra like “my body, my choice,” or “there’s no way I’m going to wear that because it’s hideous!” We had to wear an unflattering polyester one-piece gym outfit, which we dreadfully dubbed the “Zoot Suit.” If we wanted to wear our own clothes, we had to perform the “cheek-peek” test to demonstrate our modesty. Yes, that’s right, strutting in front of the teacher and the entire class while bending over to prove our “cheeks” didn’t peek out. One brave soul in my class took her up on the “cheek-peek” test and passed. From then on, that girl had my respect and admiration. Despite our collective discomfort, the rest of us complied. Mrs. B informed us in military fashion that we must comply with all of the “P.E. Rules." All P.E. students must:
Not chew gum,
Not wear jewelry
Bring and use deodorant
Dress in appropriate attire for class (AKA-the Zoot Suit!)
Shower after class
Be in assigned spots by in time to begin the calisthenic routine.
“OUT-IN-KICK!” was a new mantra we would all learn, chant, and perform during the routine. When we returned to the locker room from class, and after our shower, Mrs. B. would stand by the stalls with her clipboard and “check.” This was not a cheek-peek test; rather, it was the “towel test.” We were supposed to lift our towel against our outer thigh to show that we were not wearing our underwear in the shower stall. If you are younger than Generation X, you may need to phone your therapist for some serious processing. This was our truth, and we are still processing it.
I enjoyed Mrs. Gray’s sixth-period American History class, but not falling asleep after lunch and P.E. proved to be a pretty big challenge. And due to the groggy state I was usually in, I have no clear memories of who I sat near or what boys were irritating me there.
Seventh period was an enrichment class that changed every few weeks, and that was one class where I could try to align with my BFF. Sometimes it worked out, and sometimes it didn’t. At least we had a solid pony express note delivery system. Texting in the early 1980's was done on paper with a pen or pencil. Then the notes were folded up into triangles and flicked off into some imaginary goal post, or just handed off. This was a major survival tactic.
Within the first week, Miss Ripley announced the election of homeroom representatives and asked for anyone who was interested to raise their hands. That sounded like a big word that didn’t apply to me. I had no idea what she was talking about. I didn’t raise my hand but watched as Kendra and Courtney confidently raised theirs, as if they knew exactly what was going on. I was confused and wondered why I didn’t know what a “representative” was. I felt a little sting of ignorance, but also much safer just observing this unknown "thing" unfold. Then I watched Kendra and Courtney enjoy the perks of leaving class for meetings and coming back to report all the announcements for upcoming events like dances and student council-sponsored activities. I was jealous that I had missed out on the opportunity but also frustrated that I had never even heard of something called “Student Council.”
Feeling left out, my inner Jan Brady kicked in, and I started paying closer attention for other opportunities. Finally, I heard the magic call and seized the chance to become a projectionist, learning the ins and outs of using the school’s film projectors to assist teachers who wanted to show a film. I learned how to feed and thread the film in, then winding the wheels and pushing a button, and, don't be jealous, I also learned to “splice” a section of damaged film—an essential skill at the time. If any teacher needed a projectionist, I would be the “one.”.
Having mastered my schedule, swallowing my pride in P.E., figuring out how to unlock my locker combination, and becoming a projectionist, I was set. I wasn’t pretty. I wasn’t popular. Yet. But I knew that this was only the beginning, and there was still hope.
