Girls Bathroom Chronicles

The bell rang. Like clockwork each middle school student grabbed their book bags, hurrying to the cafeteria to sit with their friends, eat whatever was able to be choked down, and to talk about whatever or whoever was most intriguing at that particular moment. I hadn’t found my space, my group to sit with. There was no welcoming stares or friendly smiles from lunch mates who’d missed my presence or conversation. There was no one who remembered anything personal that I’d shared so they could follow-up and ask if things were working out now. There was no one I could trade dishes with, or pleasantly refuse when they ask for my double chocolate brownie that I grabbed to go with my otherwise boring lunch. In fact, I was terrified of the whole ordeal, terrified that I’d say something stupid and irretrievable, terrified that I’d further ostracize myself from all the comfortably social people, or just flat-out be rejected in a public and shameful way. I left no room for offense or open ridicule. I didn’t leave my fate in the hands of my classmates; I ate my lunch in the girls bathroom.

I’d been raised to be slightly obsessed with cleanliness, having a father who was practically raised in the hospital due to adolescent health issues, and a mother who worked as a nurses’ aid and proud tender of the home. I rinsed my hands for over 60 seconds before adding soap and rinsing them again. I never sat on anyone elses’ commode, paper covering or not. I’d learned the art of “the squat” at an early age. I didn’t eat everyone’s food, fully trusting only what I brought from home.

I brought a bagged lunch that I kept secure in my book bag complete with a juice box, an apple, a sandwich (tuna, ham or PB&J), carrots, and something sweet like a cookie or a small bag of fruit snacks. I found a reliable stall that was seldom frequented, or so I imagined, and resumed to spending my lunch in privacy and taunt-less solitude. My only interruption was when someone entered the restroom. I made sure the unwelcomed guest didn’t hear the crackling of wrappers or ruffling of paper containing food. What would people think of me if they knew that I ate lunch in the bathroom? All I knew was that the tension, anxiety, and sheer terror I felt with the idea of trying to find a welcoming place in the cafeteria disappeared when I entered my “sanctuary.“

I was new in all forms of the word. New to the school, new to the state and the South, new to public school, new to a different set of norms, new to their dialect. What I wasn’t new to was the nonacceptance that came when people realized just how different I truly was. I’d been raised in a community that mirrored how the Amish live. I wore long skirts and no make-up. I couldn’t cut my hair. I wasn’t allowed to go to movies or slumber parties. I couldn’t eat certain food. I couldn’t watch most shows on television or most songs on the radio. My friends or, rather, who I was allowed to accompany, had to have a similar upbringing. Although young, I felt like I was behind the time, like I’d already missed out on too many experiences that would’ve afforded me the feeling of normalcy. I felt my seclusion was for the best. This new world was shut out, at least for an hour. Then I’d go back to class and seemingly blend in with my classmates. I was happy that no one knew me or the secrets of my life that made me so different.

“Where do you go to eat lunch? I never see you.” A girl who I shared classes with was trying to blow my cover, I felt. I told her that I didn’t eat lunch. I’m grateful that she knew bull when she heard it. She told me that she’d observed the paper bags that I pack neatly in my book bag and asked if I wanted company at lunch time. I started to refuse. I mean, I had a good thing going, right? Peace. A secret hideaway. Minus the occasional intruder, it was equivalent to my personal She-shed. However, something about her, this girl who looked past my long skirts and boring demeanor, seemed inviting. We slowly began sharing jokes, passing silly notes, and, yes, eating lunch together in the cafeteria. She was a bit of a socialite, so people joined us and I felt like a part of a pack, group or clique.

After a month of dining in the bathroom (yes, I’m completely aware how repulsive that sounds), I finally felt comfortable. I found my space, or my space found me. The fear of non-acceptance was replaced with friendship, non-judgmental friendship that lasted well into my adulthood.