Never again

There comes a point in your young life when your mind and physical structure no longer mesh seamlessly. At twelve, you are mentally still a child while your body is morphing into the form you will hold as an adult. Your peers jostle amongst themselves to determine the 'best' at whatever. You crave inclusion, willing to give up your identity to fit in.

In the months leading up to the end of Grade 7, I felt the shift as the group of friends I had been close to developed other interests. Many of us had begun adjusting to the hormonal nastiness of puberty, producing varied results in the girls and some developed well past their physical age. I was not one of those. At least not in the expected sense.

The awkwardness of being a preteen girl became amplified over the summer. Without my say-so, and with a considerable amount of discomfort, my legs stretched an impressive six inches. That would have been okay had I been five feet tall, to begin with. But I wasn't. Within every little girl lies a dream of being the fairy princess. The petite blond with the waifish waist and perky...smile. And there seemed to be a level of intelligence that everyone attained to and was happy with, even if they were clearly better than they displayed.

I was none of those things. Upon our return to school in the fall, I was now a willowy brunette who was too smart for her own good (literally) and too shy to speak up when the insults and jabs started flying. With the wisdom of years, what was a brutally difficult part of my childhood I can now see was coloured by jealousy on the part of those girls who wanted to be tall and thin and smart. Then? Then I wanted to go back to being the same size as everyone else, to look the same, to fit in. I would even pretend to be dumber if it would make a difference.

There are things you can fake, like your IQ. But no amount of dieting or exercise will make you shorter. Standing six feet tall, without my shoes, only one person in my entire school was taller. It wasn't any of the teachers. The only individual I had to look up to was a boy in my class who had spent two years in reform school. So he was 15 to my 13. And in heels, I towered over them all.

I would not redo Grade 8 if you paid me. To sit at my desk, I had to bend my legs sideways or kick my feet out to the side. Add in the glasses I needed to wear so I could see the blackboard from the back of the room and things got even better. I was never sure if my teacher took pity on me or if I was a thorn in his side, but I was often tasked with running down to the office to get photocopies or take reports to the principal. Some days I spent hours in the kindergarten room, helping the teacher with the little ones. I even cleaned and sorted the supply room while the rest of my class worked through their lessons.

I wasn't being punished. Not exactly. My school work was always done before I left the room. Usually, it was done while Mr. Norris was still explaining what he wanted (he liked to repeat himself). What I saw as an escape, the others saw as special treatment. What for me was a reprieve from squishing into the furniture, offered the other students a reason to tease and belittle me. Eventually, I arranged to have my desk next to the door, aiding in my exit, though it didn't make them any quiet or smoother.

Recess was brutal. I was gangly and awkward in every sense. With legs nearly three feet long, my stride outpaced everyone. Except for Dave. It would have been really nice if I had inherited grace and coordination with my height. Like a newborn foal, I tried to run faster than my feet could receive the messages. It is a long way to the ground, both for the information to get through my nerves and when I am headed for a faceplant. One of these days I might get the last pieces of asphalt out of my knees.

There were strange points about that year that made me almost believe I could be part of the pack. Sporting events gave them a reason to cheer for my success – for the school. The Christmas play needed a tree. Guess who. And if the class wanted to ask for a special treat, they had a handy spokesperson. Who better to talk to the teacher about privileges than the girl who had the most already? It was a double-edged sword, one I fell on repeatedly in my vain attempts for acceptance. After all, I was the same person at 13 that I was at 12. It just didn't look that way from where they stood.

I learned a lot about self-reliance, self-esteem, and self-confidence that year. Chiefly, I learned if you didn't have them, you could fake it. I did a lot of that in the coming years. What I wasn't expecting was to be remembered. All those days of believing I was invisible, that no one saw me or cared if I was there, simply wasn't true. Decades later, upon a brief return to my small hometown, I ran into an old classmate. It's a good thing she recognized me because I had no recollection of her at all. You see, because I was never with them, I had nothing to remember. In me, she still saw the tall, willowy, smart, beautiful brunette that she had wanted to be. It took that chance meeting for me to go back in my mind and take a different approach to those pain-filled days. The message I took from our exchange was that we really don't know what another person is thinking or feeling. We only come from our own point of understanding or pain.

Those months in elementary school shaped me. But her final words to me did more. As we parted, she said, “I always wanted to be strong like you.” In the end, I have my classmates to thank for forging that strength. For that, I can remember them, even if the rest is best lost in time.