Unreasonable Doubt

Memories. They're funny things, really. No two people will remember the same event the same way. Everyone places the accent on a different thing and interprets each movement, glance and gesture in their own, personal, way.

I remember being bullied in school. At least, I think I remember being bullied. I remember being miserable, not feeling like I fit in and that getting out of bed in the morning was a task of monumental proportions because spending the day pretending everything was okay was such a draining task. Now that I teach teenagers, however, I have to wonder if how I felt was at all unusual.

I do know that I was a target for some peers. It's easy enough to make fun of the girl with good grades and cheap clothes. Easy to pick on the one that had a better rapport with adults than with peers. That odd girl who read books, did her homework and knew what was going on in class.

For awhile I thought it was my imagination that made me "remember" being picked on and made to feel like an alien. The zebra in a herd of wild horses. Similar but not the same.

There are a few things, however, that are true. The first being two separate teachers telling me the same thing; that the other students were afraid of me. The second being an old classmate telling me, years later, that he would have loved to date me back in the day if he hadn't been so afraid it would make him a social outcast too.

Of the two teachers, one was a guidance teacher and the other was my homeroom teacher. They both approached the subject in different ways. The guidance teacher bluntly told me I would be more popular if I didn't scare the other kids so much. Which, in my mind, lumped her with the bullies as I felt it was a cheap shot at my expense. From an adult, no less. A supposed helpful tip that was merely meant to embarrass me and further expose my faults to the world. The only thing missing was an audience. It was like when my main tormentor once told me, in front of the whole class, that boys would probably like me if I didn't have dandruff. Which was followed by a "What?! I was only trying to be nice." Yeah, of course she was. She had lots of nice tips like that.

My homeroom teacher called me into his classroom at the end of the year and had a hard time getting the words out. I felt sorry for him until I realized what he was trying to say. He started by praising my academic achievements and asking what I thought of my report card. I had no idea what he was after so I kept my answers short. Then he said that he'd noticed I didn't really connect with the other students. I didn't have an answer for him because, by that time, I was convinced my social charade was Oscar-worthy. He ventured on to say that he thought it might be because I understood more than the others and, because they didn't realize that, it made them afraid of me.

I remember I went home and cried. I hated my classmates but I didn't want it confirmed that they had similar, if not scarier, thoughts about me.

Looking back, I appreciate my homeroom teacher's words more than my guidance teacher's (how the hell she ever got that position I can't even guess). Had my homeroom teacher added that people fear things they don't understand, his attempt would have actually been useful as I would have understood I had the power position. As it is, I spent the rest of my time at that school feeling like an even bigger freak than I did before.

It wasn't until I realized that pretty much all teens feel like freaks that I began to wonder if, perhaps, my "bullies" may have also felt bullied. There is a study somewhere (which, of course I can't find now) that interviewed several hundred teens while still in high school and asked them how happy they were and if they felt accepted or bullied. The greater percentage answered positively and stated that they were happy and fit in just fine. Those same teens were interviewed in adulthood and asked exactly the same questions but then looking back at their high school experience. A larger percentage, looking back, felt they hadn't been accepted, weren't happy and were bullied in varying degrees. Memories, right?

I can't say what I would have answered back then. I do know that I didn't tell my mother about any of it until after we moved away and that she was completely surprised by my confession. See, my act was so convincing (save for those pesky teachers) that I'd had myself pretty much convinced I was doing okay. You have to or you go crazy, I think.

I know that it's never black and white and that my memories of that time will be different to the ones of those that made me feel miserable. Maybe they saw me as a bully. Maybe I hurt them, too. I was very word-clever and, looking back, I am fairly sure I made them feel stupid on more than one occassion. What we think other people think of us colours our interpretation of their words and gestures. For right and wrong. The fact that they had more friends to back them up doesn't mean they didn't have feelings, right? It just means that their feelings of alienation may have been less. Nowadays I don't doubt they felt just as lonely as I did.

High school stereotypes do exist. Mostly because teenagers don't know who they are yet or who they want to be and they try on a role for awhile. Some get pushed into their role. Not many realize you can be different combinations. When I moved I was no longer Brown-Nosing Geek Girl but New Girl. Even better, I was Really Interesting New Girl Everyone Wanted To Know. You can imagine what memories I have from that time. Which is lucky for me. I got to experience the other side.

With Facebook and the internet putting many high school classmates back in touch who, in my case, did not see each other evolve from what they were back then to who they are now, I have to wonder about their experiences. How did they see it all? What do they see now? And is my profile picture making them jealous enough?

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"Highschool is never over" -- The Jane Austen Book Club