who am I anyway?
Finding your identity is a transformative period in young adulthood. In sheltered or closed minded environments, your vision is limited. Because of this, some young adults are encouraged – maybe even forced; to become carbon-copies of ideals pushed by parents and society.
At the end of the story you may think, it wasn’t that bad. You’re lucky to have this education, these opportunities – and it’s true, I acknowledge I absolutely come from privilege. Here, I ask the reader to reflect the evolution of identity molded through circumstance and experiences. At this age, how critical is “being social?”. How important is it to expose young adults to strong concepts like death? How does real time communication effect people? This was only the dawn of the internet, and I was just a witness.
Stifled
Sixth grade, 1999. Line up outside, single file. The line was in a different place this time. The younger kids were to my left. I had to bring a lock today. The class walked up stairs. We were assigned a locker number. I was scared I would get locked out, confused by the dial, afraid I’d forget the numbers. My reputation preceded me. These teachers had heard I wasn’t doing school work, or wasn’t paying attention in class. The school days changed. This time, we moved to different classrooms between bell rings. We had teachers for specific subjects. History, Science, Math, English. These would be my teachers for the next two years. During the history quarter, we’d read a chapter from a large hard cover book. Students were asked at random to stand up and read aloud from the book. I was a good reader. After all, at this point I was reading fantasy books regularly. It was beyond Harry Potter. Dragonlance, the Sword of Truth… but that’s a topic for another time. My reading level was far above average. It was hard to listen to most of my class read paragraphs out loud. They stuttered, and struggled. They skipped sentences. They were nervous. Naturally, I was nervous to. Still, when I stood and read aloud, my voice was loud and clear. I was confident in my speech. I understood the words I was saying. I never messed up. I sat back down, my teacher squinted at me. Suspect. This teacher would hand out paper assignments after. She often dozed off to the quiet sound of pencils on paper. She often clipped her nails as we took notes from the projector. She didn’t really teach.
Math made me anxious. I was never confident in it, I couldn’t show my work. I was always wrong. I never learned division, I only knew decimals. My math teacher didn’t like this. I distracted myself a lot during class. It was a beautiful day outside, during a test, and I was staring at blossoms on the tree. My math teacher saw this. She stopped the class. “Let’s all take a moment and stare out the window.” The class looked up, confused, stopping mid equation. They looked out the window. The teacher glared at me. I looked down at my half empty test. I had taken back to drawing in my notebook. One day, I brought a keychain in with me. It was a little plastic Gengar (Pokémon). I put it on my desk, facing the projector. It made me happy to imagine playing Pokémon in math class. The teacher saw this, frustrated, turned her head and sighed. I was asked to sit at the back of the class, facing the wall. I was embarrassed. I started crying. As you can imagine, I was regularly referred to as “the crybaby” at this point. After class, I went to the bathroom. I sat on the closed toilet, put my feet up and locked the stall. I didn’t go to the next class. I felt my face flush and hot with tears. The teacher came into the bathroom and yelled my name. I didn’t respond. Another ten minutes pass by, they came back into the bathroom. “I know you’re in here, come out now.” She was angry. I was in trouble. I was brought down to the office, to speak with the principal. The nun. She had called my mother. I was berated for “running away”, I put “myself at risk” and “in danger”. I was put in back of the class often. They didn’t hold me back though. I still went on to the next grade.
Rejection
Seventh grade, 2000. Line up outside, single file. The line was in a different place this time. The younger kids were to my left. There was a new teacher this year. She taught us morality. During class, we put our chairs in a circle. We talked about things like “the message of Jesus” in the Bible. We were all allowed to speak our thoughts about what the scripture meant. I am not a person of faith, but the study gave me the idea that Jesus was not important as person, but for the messages expressed through his parables. The teacher let us make our own mailboxes. After class, we could write a note to a classmate about their day or their thoughts, whatever we wanted I guess. I wrote letters to a girl I envied. She was tall and had long hair like me. She was smart, well spoken, and played piano. I used to play piano.
One day, we had a field trip to see an Orchestra. I was excited for the trip, but it was a long bus ride. There was a lot of gossip. The class had two rows on the second floor, near the front. We could look down and see a where more musicians were below under the floor. A conductor came out and they performed a lot of beautiful music. I was enamored by the sound, and felt a bit emotional. The musicians were visibly passionate about playing their instrument. My peers were mostly whispering to one another. My old history teacher was asleep. The next day, I thought I would write a letter to the girl I envied. I don’t remember getting a letter back, but I didn’t feel like I could talk to anyone else about it. Sometimes, I was “let in”. Sometimes I felt “included”. Maybe it was all in my head. I didn’t really have friends. I didn’t “hang out” after school. Who was I kidding? She was best friends with two other girls, so it made sense not to hear back. Most of them probably spoke to me because they were told to interact with me anyway. I never wrote any letters after that. I don’t remember receiving many.
The year was a blur, as levels of maturity were violently changing both physically and mentally between my peers. I struggled with mental health. I walked home to an empty house every day, and watched TV, read, or played video games. I slowly started to find my escapes, and became more introverted. The school hosted a dance. Wallflower. The boy I liked didn’t like me, anyway. I was rejected, and I was teased for it. I was active in sports, and everyone said I was “good at volleyball”. I was forced to participate, though. I started to reject my peers.
Death
Eighth grade, 2001. Line up outside, single file. The line was in a different place this time. The younger kids were to my left. I came to school with a Power Puff Girls backpack. I watched Cartoon Network all the time, and really liked the show. I found small online communities. Cartoon Network had a cool website you could play games on. Of course, when I walked into school that day, the same boy from Kindergarten made a comment. “You like Power Puff girls?” Kyle asked sarcastically. I replied with a simple “Yes”. Whatever.
During math class, my math teacher would check stocks on an Apple computer while we sat in silence doing math problems. It was a lot of work, usually 80+ problems. There were answers in the back of the book, but I still got them wrong and was confused. I excelled in literature and art class, continuing to read my own books and books assigned to the class. The Giver, The Outsiders, Lord of the Flies, Flowers for Algernon, Of Mice and Men. Some (most) of these books may be banned now; but there’s no question the impact they had on me. They exposed me to death. That year, my literature teachers father died of cancer. What was once a passionate woman that loved speaking with me and looking at my art, stared blankly into the distance during class. She was different. She didn’t talk much about “God”, or pray.
For biology, parents signed off permission slips to let students watch a live birth. They rolled out the CRT and played a tape (VHS). I had permission, but I didn’t watch. I remembered back to first grade. A boy transferred out in the middle of the year, and the adults were sad. His mother had a miscarriage. That day, I understood. I remember my neighbor two houses down. I was playing with their son on their swing set. He confided in me around the age of 8 that when his mother was with child, that “the baby was empty”, and he wouldn’t have a sister anymore. My neighbors adopted a daughter a year later. I didn’t understand this at the time, but reality was sinking in fast. Stillbirth. I knew then, I never wanted children. They were fragile, and could die. Around the same time, my peers mother died of breast cancer. It was extremely emotional for me. This was someone I grew up with, and even though we weren’t very close, seeing a boy be this emotional broke me. Crybaby. The class was off one day that week to go to the funeral mass. The boys were dressed in suits and ties. Joseph appeared… older that day. No, they weren’t boys.
One morning in September, we got to class as usual. The bell rang at 8:30am. We started class with the usual pledge and prayer. My other history teacher (different lady) suddenly walked briskly into the room and looked extremely worried. She whispered something to my teacher. My teacher froze, unsure how to react. My history teacher stood tall, and explained bluntly, plainly, exactly what was going on. A plane crashed into a building in New York. They brought my class down to the library. There were Apple computers in the library, enough for every student. We had access to “ask jeeves”, and Yahoo. I had my own geocities page by now, and knew how to use the internet well. I started reading into what information was available on Yahoo. My math teacher was on one computer in the back. He loudly said “Jesus Christ”. I walked over to him. He started talking to me. This was an adult, much older, unfiltered. Defenses down. He looked me in the eyes, and for the first time, I was at the same level as him. He was struggling to process. I was struggling to understand. He said another plane crashed into the building next to the first. I didn’t know what the world trade center was. He told me every detail.
Outside the library, the younger kids were lining up, single file. They were taken to the basement under the church. Within the next hour or so, my peers were picked up by their parents one by one. All the children were leaving the school and going home. I lived very close by, the school let me walk home alone. I saw my mothers car in the driveway. That was extremely odd. I walked in the door, and the TV was on. The blaze of fire on the towers were broadcast in real time. My mother was watching, trying to explain. I already knew, from my teacher. The news was calling it an attack. My father came in shortly after. We watched the TV. A firefighter outside the building said people were jumping. That they couldn’t get up the tower. A loud boom was heard behind him. He quickly jerked around. It was the sound of a body hitting concrete. Every channel had a different view. The buildings collapsed. Reporters were running from a cloud of ash. Death surrounded me, my family, my country.
The parish made calls to every house. The church would be open all night every day that week. I’m not a person of faith, but my heart was hollowed. My parents were glued to the TV the rest of the evening. I was on the internet, undisturbed for much longer than usually allowed. It was 10pm. Death tolls, something about another plane and the pentagon. I left the house without saying anything and walked to the church. It was dimly lit with candles. There were at least 30 people there. Some were crying. Some were kneeling. Some simply sat with their head down. I saw my neighbor and his two sons, slightly younger then me. No one else close to my age was there. I was alone. I stared at all the candles. I don’t know how long I was there. I didn’t cry.
Last mass of the school year. The children were sectioned off in the church by grade. The younger kids were to my right. I was in a blue gown with a strange hat. The fourth graders sang us our special song. The bells from the church rang. A lot of my peers were going to the same High School. I wanted a fresh start. I chose a place in the city. I was happy. It was finally over. I would never see any of my peers again. Or so I thought.
The world around me had changed so violently that “God” came into question. There is a reason for everything, or so I had been taught. Was this a test? The passion for fine art and drawing that I had was all but gone. It was just a coping mechanism now. My drawings became dark, my perception overwhelmingly negative. Nothing mattered, and I could make no difference.
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