Physically, I take after my dad. I have his small face with almost no forehead, bushy eyebrows, big hazel eyes that glint with a hint of gold. I inherited his lean frame that carries any excess weight pretty well. Although his jet black hair has gone gray, he's aged well. Over the years I've begun to embrace the fact that I resemble him more than my mother; but that wasn't always easy. There was nothing quite like being a little girl who found herself with an unwanted boyish haircut that prompted even more people to remark about her father's likeness.
As school begins for the school children around the country, I've found myself thinking back to my own schooldays. On this day though, I wasn't full of nostalgia. I was thinking about how glad I am that it's over. Faced with the many pressures of being an adult, I think we are inclined to look back on our childhood with a sort of wistful longing. Somehow, we've allowed ourselves to forget just how difficult and painful it could be at that time.
Looking down at my hairy legs (I haven't been able to shave due to an allergic reaction to a new shaving cream) I couldn't help but think about the not so pleasant parts of my childhood. Along with that boyish haircut, I also began first grade with far more body hair than most girls my age. In fact, I had more hair than some of my male classmates. Worse, it was as jet black as the hair on my head. Combine that we my speech impediment and my somewhat desperate need to be liked, it's really no wonder that I became an easy target.
For years, I listened to the kids howl like coyotes at the moon when I approached. It was there not so subtle reminder that they thought I looked like a werewolf due my body hair. As it continue throughout grade school I would spend many nights crying into my pillow or yelling at my parents about how their genes cursed me forever. Years later, doctors would repeatedly test for a possible hormone imbalance. There were times that I actually prayed that I did have more testosterone in me, at least maybe then they could treat it. I grew to hate everything about the way I looked.
One day, they showed me a picture of my dad at my age with a comment about how much I looked at him. When I looked at the picture, I saw the resemblance and declared, "I don't want to look like him. He's ugly." In my young mind, every time I was reminded that I looked like my dad, I only heard that I looked like a boy. Didn't they know that boys were gross? Why would they say I looked like one? The last thing I wanted to be was a hairy boy and yet that's how I felt.
As I hit adolescence I learned how to fight fire with fire. When someone made some mean comment about my body hair I found something that made them insecure and made a mean comment back. I knew it wasn't nice but I ignoring it didn't work for years and this had some affect. In the sixth grade I found myself part of my very first clique. Like all cliques,we had a leader. The leader of a clique is almost portrayed as a very pretty mean girl; however, I'm not sure if you really even have to be all that pretty. Our leader was not the prettiest based on media standards but she was mean.
When she chose a pretty, petite blond to hate the rest of us went right along with her. There were times when I wondered what this poor girl did that deserved our comments but there was another part of me that was just glad it wasn't me. If I had to be mean to stay cool and keep myself from being the target then I'd be mean. Looking back I regret that part of my life with a passion. I wish I had the strength to stand up to them and be the better person but I became as bad as the rest of them. I still cringe when I think about the applesauce filled with mayonnaise we gave to her. She was smart enough not to eat tampered food but really how awful is that?
A year later, those same girls made me their target. I would spend my days hating "recess" when I would stand next to them pretending to be a friend of theirs while they purposely ignored me or made comments they new would hurt me. They revealed other things too... things that I didn't hesitate to use against them when they isolated another of our group. By the end of the year, I found myself back in a different clique. Clearly, I hadn't learned. A few months before the end of eighth grade I got sick in my womanly area that kept me out of school for weeks. Because of it's personal nature, I didn't talk about it much.
Imagine my surprise when I got back to school to find out that many of the same girls in my clique had also spread the rumor that the reason I was out was because I had an abortion. To ensure my status as a social outcast, they told the few loyal to me that I had said horrible things about them. Since talking behind each other's back was normal, I was not believed when I denied it all. In many ways, it hurt more that I didn't say those things. It's not that I wasn't mean, I was-they had plenty of ammunition but they chose to lie instead.
Needless to say I was devastated. I spent the rest of the year just trying to keep the remnants of my dignity and the summer without a single friend from school was one of the worst summers of my life. A part of me knew I had deserved it. I wasn't a nice person and the people I chose as friends weren't nice people. I resolved that I would never consciously treat anyone like that ever again. I was given the opportunity to prove it when I entered high school and found myself involved in a group that was remarkably similar to that of my middle school clique.
It wasn't long when I was faced with a choice: I could be mean and stay in the group or I could walk away. I chose to walk away. Over the next few months, new rumors that I was lesbian reverberated quietly among those in socially high places. Walking through the halls I would actually count the number of people who didn't like me, the number who didn't know me, and number who did like me. For a couple of months, all that matter was that the number who didn't like me was higher than the number who did.
In a strange twist, that pretty blond we treated so horribly had become very popular. I expected her to be the one of the worst but instead she and her ex-boyfriend were the two that stepped in to defend me when no one else would. To say that I felt like such trash after receiving her support is an understatement. How could she be so nice after I had treated her? I didn't deserve it. I deserved what I was getting. I expected it from her too.
Her kindness reconfirmed my conviction to be a better person. One day I walked down the halls and I realized that there were more people who didn't have a clue who I was than there were who disliked me. I may only have a handful of people who liked me but I could just enjoy those friends and stop worrying about the rest. When I decided to do that, I began to meet many of those I didn't know. Before long I was walking through the halls and those who liked me outnumbered those who didn't. Better yet, I was with a group of people were actually fun to be around. I didn't have to talk badly about anyone else or treat anyone as inferior to keep them as friends. They accepted me--flaws and all.
Over time, those who spent so much time spreading rumors forgot about me. They moved on and so did I. My rough seas of finding and keeping friends calmed. I sailed through the rest of high and college with only a few hiccups. Of course, I encountered a whole new obstacle during my sophomore year. I thought I had gone through a lot before, I thought I was strong until I met him. Even him though, I not only endured everything he put me through but I am finally beginning to move on. It took me nine years to establish solid friendships and it's taken about the same amount of time to move past all he put me through and enjoy my wonderful husband but it's happening.
In the end, I'm so glad I'm done with school. It wasn't all bad. In fact, I did enjoy school far more than most but I wouldn't want to go through it all again. It wasn't easy but it was worth it.
