Those High School Years
I was reminded of my high school days today when a friend
passed away. I never did well in
school, and it wasn’t the grades that pulled me down, it was the much-needed
participation that I found hard to deliver.
My grades were good, mostly As and Bs, and then total Fs.
The hardest part of my life was gym class – I hated, not
only due to the clubfoot that made me a bit clumsy, the whole idea of putting
30+ girls in a room together to change clothes. I was chubby, and already picked on, and I tried a few times
changing clothes in the group, and then in the bathroom so no one could see
me. After about the second week in 7th
grade I gave up and would no longer participate. I usually sat on the bleachers, or stands, or wherever the class
was taking place, in my regular clothes and reading a book. And I did that from 7th grade to
11th and then I discovered I couldn’t graduate high school unless I
had changed clothes in front of a hoard of folks and participated in the
silliest things.
I took an F – a failure all those years with no regret. I would see the cute girls in their tiny
bras walking about with small hips, no jiggle, and tiny stringed panties, and
then I would look at myself in the mirror.
Why would anyone expect me to change clothes in the same room? I was smarter than most of them, although I
never studied, yet still achieved good grades.
In my last year of high school I discovered I couldn’t
graduate, if I didn’t participate.
Luckily, my mom gave me her credit card to go shopping and I spent most
of it on bras and panties that complimented my form. And finally, I dressed out, standing in the stinking locker room
with the others. I was still heavy, but
had thinned out a bit, and I changed clothes and participated.
My gym teacher, who left the middle school, followed her
class to high school, and who I had failed every class under, was still my
teacher. I didn’t bring in doctor notes
to explain the clumsiness, and we did well.
She praised my athletic ability, and wondered why I hadn’t worked so
hard in all those years in gym class. I
don’t think at the time I could tell her my challenges – I didn’t talk much
back then.
Then came the time in April or May, under Georgia heat, we
had to run. It was a big part of our grade. With a clubbed foot, and uneven hips,
running is not something I do.
Evidently, running that quarter mile on the track was part of my grade,
and I had to have the grade to graduate.
I tried three times and couldn’t do it.
Stupid foot, and uneven hips, and with no doctor’s notes or reprieve -
my father had quit writing notes for my birth defect in the 4th
grade, as he said I must be able to be like the others - I was doomed.
Miss Ward, Maggie Ward, decided we’d do it together. As the other girls sat on the stands, easily
done with their part of the grade and agenda, she set a pace that I could do,
and ran beside me. We did that quarter
mile around the track, her encouraging me the whole way, and I finally received
an A in gym class. I had participated
for once, but even more, she had seen my unspoken struggles and helped me. I think of her often.
Nowadays, I’m still not very athletic, but I do tend to
animals, gardens, swim deeply in the lake, and sometimes play a game of
badminton with my husband in the grass.
I’m not as athletic as I want to be, but I still hear Ms. Ward
encouraging me every time I think I can’t do a thing I know I can do. Sometimes, we don’t actually know our
blessings until they are gone.
Our friend Buddy, odd, strange, sweet, and picked on a bit
in his youth is gone today. Carol
Holland, a teacher who encouraged more than I would have believed is possible,
is also gone. And for Ms. Ward, I hope
she is still kicking about and will appreciate how much I love and loved her.
I suppose the truth always comes with some pain.
Truth is painful, it’s challenging, and be it a decision or
action made for a child, sibling, student, classmate, stranger, spouse,
co-worker, or partner, I believe we should be just and fair, thoughtful and understanding
when dealing with people we don’t understand.
I know it’s hard at times, we all have our own filters, but I believe
breaking the lens to see deeper is important.
Ms. Ward didn’t have to be so nice to me, especially while
knowing that I needed her help to get my diploma, she also knew I had failed
her classes, deliberately, for years.
She could have been offended, but she wasn’t. She helped me, and she may have bent a rule or two to get me
around that track.
I suppose truth like that is heartbreaking - like watching a
sunrise. It’s undergoing pain to
experience a birth. It’s falling in
the dirt to be reborn. It’s surrendering
to the knowledge that we don’t have all the answers.
Today, I lost a friend, and I am reminded of those painful
teenage years, where the levels of acceptance were clarified in the locker room
dressing out for gym, and then I remember the teachers who saw the least of us
and lifted us up. I truly hope my
friend experienced the same kindness. I
didn’t know him very well as an adult, but I remember him, and us, as
kids. And we rocked! Weird, odd, strange, genuine, and
mostly unsullied, but a bit scarred, by what was happening around us.