To choose to be a teacher isn’t so unique. Of course, I wanted to make a difference in someone’s life. I have always wanted to help change someone’s life for the better. I thought this was always my goal. Clearly it wasn’t.
To choose to be a teacher isn’t so unique just because I was picked on when I was in middle school and high school either. Upon moving to my uppity community in middle school, I found myself without friends, knowing only my little brother, and thirteen. I was a young teenager trying to fit in. Entering middle school alone is social suicide; the cliques were already full. Girls used to tease me about my “secret” crushes. The boys would taunt me with strange vocabulary words and make me guess their meanings; mostly the words were dirty words, or so they said they were, as they laughed at my stupidity. The stupidity really came from me because I still wanted to impress these people.
In seventh grade, walking down the hallway after school I was stopped by a particular boy. Even twenty years later, I can remember it clearly. He was probably flirting, but I couldn’t allow it. He wanted to flick my bra strap. I dodged his reaching arm and even participated in a small bout with him stumbling around the hall. I ended up kicking the boy in the shin. I loved him. I loved him even after I returned home later that evening as I pleaded with my mom to buy me a bra.
Needless to say, I didn’t win the boy over and I spent most of my middle school and high school career trying to impress boys with anything I could. Because of these “traumatic” teenage experiences, I don’t really remember many people from grade school. I have blocked them out of my mind.
Now with Facebook and an occasional return visit to my hometown, I have been contacted by a variety of old classmates. I wonder why they remember me so well. I wonder why they want to be my Facebook friend now when before they either used me for sexual conquests, or wouldn’t give me the time of day, or sadly, both. Even today, I still want to be their friends a little inside; I accept their friendship requests, and I pretend to recognize them when I cross paths with them. I can fake it for them, for me.
Recently some of my fellow band mates (marching band, not a lame garage rock band) posted some old photos from some band competitions. I flipped through the pictures laughing at my perm and trying to guess each person’s name when I realized that I was tagged as the wrong person. I don’t know why my feelings were hurt. I don’t remember even a quarter of the people I should. Why would it bother me for them to mark me as a color guard member rather than a band member? I decided to retag all my photos, so as to correct the person’s mistakes.
The next day I got a friend request from another person in the photo; obviously he saw my new tags when he explored the photos. It was a boy who grew up next to me, a few blocks down the road in the same neighborhood. I remember him quickly and immediately, and not because I thought he was cute or athletic in school. I remember him because he was someone we picked on in the neighborhood.
Just when I thought that I was the one who was tormented, I recalled my brother and I setting up elaborate haunted scenes in our backyard. See, this boy, in the eighties, was sure he was a Ghostbuster. (This is probably not a suggested practice for any seventh grader.) My brother knew this short little Indian boy liked me, too. My brother knew that the boy trusted me because I was his “friend” at school. With my brother and a few of his friends, we would lure the poor boy in the yard and taunt him with unrealistic ghosts. He was pretty gullible. One time I remember even being tried to a tree by a ghost. The boy always would come to my rescue. Another time we convinced him to search the shed only to lock him into it.
One afternoon he bought me a five pack of lifesavers for me and tried to get me to kiss him. I didn’t. I believe the incident ended with my sister and brother opening and closing the door in his face. Eventually he left, and we split the lifesavers. In retrospect, I don’t remember enjoying them.
I teased the boy in school. I used him for laughs with my girlfriends. Eventually some of the band girls actually influenced his sister against him. He would have given any of us a dollar or a homework assignment just for a little smile or a simple compliment. We made sure everyone treated him the same way.
I was a pretty big loser myself in middle school and high school. I knew and know how it feels to be picked on and used. Why did I do this to this poor boy? Why, of the very few things I remember about being a teenager, do I remember this so clearly?
Actually the adult boy still wanted to talk to me. Oddly, he didn’t remember much about me. He didn’t realize my picture was tagged incorrectly. He didn’t even remember I had a brother. Still, I nearly apologized for my rude immature behavior twice. I didn’t. I probably would feel better right now if I did. Even as he complained about how much he disliked living in that school district, I couldn’t take one for the team and apologize for my actions.
Now, as selfish as it is, I can only think about is what makes so many people remember me so well? The only reason why I remember this poor forsaken Ghostbuster is because I taunted him through school; I helped make middle school and the start of high school miserable for him. I picked on someone else just because people picked on me. Did I really even have this much power?
I have wanted to change someone’s life…make a difference. I could have done that twenty years ago. I could have stepped up and actually been his friend. I guess, in a way, I am a teacher because of this time in my life. I want to make students that were like me stronger, so they will be brave and stick up for others. I would like to make everyone more tolerable of one another. Is this even possible? I might be able to still change one person….
Mishaps Today 