Sixth period and I was still high on the smell of new school supplies: notebooks filled with blank pages, pencils with a sharp tip, and pens with fresh ink. I was in my desk early for Honors English, examining my thighs in the red and white dress I was wearing. If I crossed my legs, you could see the muscles I’d earned from soccer and tennis. But you could also see a tiny dimple where they pressed against the plastic desk chair. I practiced crossing and uncrossing as the class filed in, finding the perfect angle to showcase only smooth skin.
I didn’t notice her until the bell. One seat up, one row over. Her hair was black like mine, but in tight corn rows wound up into a bun. Her neck was stiff from effort, gaze fixed on the empty teacher’s desk at the front of the room, while everyone around her chatted, loose-limbed and easy.
I should say hello. But that would mean leaning forward to get her attention and I couldn’t think of anything smarter to say than “Hey! You!” If I said something, maybe she would feel more welcomed. Or maybe that would just draw attention to the fact that she felt out of place.
I knew three black kids at our school: Erin and Nikki, who were in some of my classes, and a guy named David who went to Young Life and was, according his friends, the whitest black guy in school. In his khakis and polo shirts, David walked straight by the area in the front hallway where the non-whitest black kids hung out before school, gaze fixed ahead as though he didn’t see them at all.
Despite having a Confederate soldier as our school mascot, there was no outright war between students, only a civil ignorance.
But I could not ignore the discomfort in the planes of the girl’s shoulders, a straight parallel to the black board. I leaned forward (with a quick glance to see how this affected the smoothness of my thighs) and had opened my mouth when Ms. Saunders walked in and began to call roll. I didn’t even break the girl’s peripheral vision.
After class, I thought, getting happily lost in names of the American greats like Hawthorne and Poe and Hemingway and Emerson. I felt satisfied by the way my print curled up the edges of the college-ruled paper, page after page. I was too naïve then to miss Morrison and Angelou and Douglass and Hughes.
The bell rang again and before I could jam my notebook into my backpack, the girl bolted for the door, coltishly quick. Her disappearance made no ripple in the room’s conversations.
Tomorrow. I can talk to her tomorrow.
But the next day, her desk was empty. Maybe the whole thing had been a scheduling screw-up. But I imagined her a few classrooms away, a smart girl hiding in a non-honors class, sinking comfortably into a desk surrounded by friends where she would study the same dead white writers and curl up the pages of a notebook just like mine.
___________
I’m linking up with a bunch of lovely writers over at Yeah Write who curl up notebook paper all the time, or at least get callouses from typing so much on their laptops. Anyone else have first-day-of-school regrets?
oh i hope not. i hope that wouldn’t be why she switched. 🙁 growing pains are hard all over.
I was painfully shy in high school and was, for the most part, just happy to disappear. As I read this, I was taken back and 2 or 3 names of kids came to mind, I wish I had had the nerve to walk up to and say hi. Opportunities lost, I suppose.
I was that girl. gosh I hated high school and my teen years. 🙁
I congratulate you on such an openly transparent reflection. Despite what they say, teens often find it toughest of all to approach any differences, as evidenced by their cliques. As much as they don’t want to be ruled by others’ boundaries, your writing shows how we all more naturally stick to likenesses and shy away from invisible lines (when in the end, none of us are so very different, after all).
Spending so long in other countries this summer really highlighted just how similar we all are.
I hope not too. I have no idea what her story was, but always wondered if someone–anyone–had been a little more welcoming, she wouldn’t have felt so clearly out of place. No one was intentionally being rude, just dumb high schoolers.
I would say most people probably wish they had been a little nicer in high school to people around them. Or at least, it would be nice if we could go back with our gained wisdom and perspective to make some other choices. 🙂 Then again…the things that happened to us helped shape us, so I’m glad we can’t magically go back.
I think a lot of us did! I enjoyed mine, but at the same time just shake my head at my thoughts and choices. Like…being overly concerned about my thighs and not brave enough to say hi to someone who was possibly feeling uncomfortable.
Thanks, Jody! I honestly felt a little uncomfortable and hesitant writing this. It’s pretty much real for me at that age, but who really wants to still channel that!? 🙂 And yes–there are so many silly lines and differences we create and assume. Don’t you just wish we could convince younger people of that?
Wow, what an honest reflection. I grew up in a very diverse area, and we studied Hughes right along with Emerson, but I can imagine the lack felt if that weren’t the case. And isn’t it strange, how we’re all so self-conscious as teens, and end up not thinking too much about the discomfort of others? I must say, I was guilty of that many times.
I wish more people learned that lesson younger. Even watching my toddlers, I can see how they notice differences (which isn’t wrong) but then make decisions based on them, like how my boys don’t like girls. Because they are girls.
It’s weird that we didn’t–I mean, just up the road in college we studied so many more diverse writers. And my teachers really were great, so I wonder if it was a curriculum thing or what. No matter the reason, we SHOULD have been reading a more divers canon. Also, that’s the perfect way to put it about being self-conscious, yet not thinking of others being that way.
Hmmm, my first day of first grade started with the girl next to me pushing my seat away while we stood for the Pledge. I do not remember feeling very welcome as I sat on the floor after falling. I think your efforts were to be a bit more positive!
I wonder what the rest of her story is, where she went, and why. High school is such a powder keg, it’s a wonder any of us made it out in one piece and (relatively) unscathed.
Dug this, Kiki, thanks!
The obsession with dimpled thighs really resonated with me. Now, not so much, but it took motherhood to wipe the concern mostly away.
Funny that Mary Wash was more diverse, curriculum-wise, when it was so NOT diverse, people-wise.
I do remember kind of noticing the discomfort of others, but not doing much. I suppose I just noticed, and didn’t particularly enjoy it, no schadenfreude, but I was in my safe cocoon of friends. What they say about our brains not fully ripening until we’re at least 25 is sooo right.
At least you had the impulse to try to make her feel more welcome, even if you were unable to accomplish your task. That speaks volumes. None of the other kids seemed to have the same thought. That thought is what changes the civil ignorance into acceptance. It is at least the spark that starts the journey.
I grew up in the midwest and went to schools with very little diversity. Still, there was no tension among students of different races and ethnicities thankfully. That age – high school – first day of class; even without the issue of being different. Your compassion and insight at such a young age is admirable and the story beautifully and compassionately told.
What a great title! It’s sad how people can be trapped in an attitude, without even realising that they don’t have to be that way.
great piece, Kiki. The kindness of others is such a great concept, but so difficult to carry out. Beautiful descriptions of her – the hair, the tension, the quick exit.
This is a really cool post. Race is really hard to talk about perhaps especially when it’s effects are more subtle than old school “No black kids can sit here” type racism. Thinking about the level to which my high school English class focused on dead white guys makes me really uncomfortable. Systemic racism has such a big impact on the “literary canon” it’s ridiculous.
What girl didn’t study how her thighs looked against those horrible plastic chairs? I love how you describe those small, important details in your work. I wonder about that girl as well. And, thankfully, some female authors – who are alive and thriving and not lily white! – are in English classes now. So many dead, white males….and I do love so many of them, too.