I was not popular in high school. I wouldn't say that I was unpopular either, but I certainly didn't strut around the place cocksure that I was loved, admired, or led a coveted life. Funny how so much in the adult world takes you right back to those awkward feelings in the hallways of a place where everything was learned--intellectually, emotionally, strategically, socially. I didn't hate my experience, didn't hate being odd man out, though it was often lonely and painful, well hidden behind a smile and eccentric wardrobe. It was the 80s and though our neighborhood was integrated, there was no strong minority presence, so minority students were more like novelty acts, not headliners.
Unlike teens today, I didn't plot to hurt other people when I felt hurt and didn't have social media to blow up other people metaphorically with photos, miserable, cruel texts, or revealed secrets. I always thought that becoming successful would be the best revenge. Success being measured more by my ability to get as far away from my hometown as possible, finding a mate, making a family, and just having a level of happiness that the torture of being in high school and living at home denied me. I feel so good about the life I have made with my hubby and people, even when I am staring into space wondering how the hell we got here, begging the heavens for some guidance, direction, help when I just don't know what turn to take.
But we live in our own sweet bubble. We are protected in this place because we made it and invite in only those we want. We are a family of four and any friends, family, acquaintances, or repairmen who get close do so with great scrutiny and testing. Can't play right? No more play dates. Can't speak kindly? No more phone calls. Bring the bad juju? Buh-bye. In just one situation, however, I am thrown back to the feeling I had trolling the high school hallways when I bumped into someone at the top of the heap.
A few nights ago, I forced my husband to come home early from work and attend a parents' night at Virginie's school. Were we not meeting her teachers, I would have scrapped the whole thing entirely, but we were. Meeting her teachers. And her teachers have already told us some wonderful things about our baby. Our baby who is 3 1/2 and trying to write her own name. Who talks non-stop with big words in big sentences. For her and for Lily, for each other, we will do anything. So there I found myself, with my handsome French husband with no high school hang ups because it seems that high school BS is a distinctly American problem, but with absolutely no interest in these people, meeting and greeting in the school's gymnasium while the PTA hawked books for its fundraiser and folks smiled at each other and air kissed each other and chatted about their other kids at bigger, better schools, their wonderful vacations, exciting plans for their charmed lives. I felt myself in braces, short spiky hair, and black wrestling shoes, in a sea of glamorous sorority girls.
I know, I know they are not all alike, not all the same. That we all have our crosses to bear and that the truth is often hidden behind those hair flips and blindingly flashy diamonds. Just as years later, relationships that never formed in high school have been able to develop and blossom via social media after one heck of a twentieth reunion. But the gut feeling is still there. The lump in the throat still lingers. Having spent those formative years in a nearly all white school, where just by nature of being different I found myself on the outside(not to mention the secret and not so secret racist ideals exhibited by some, but certainly not all in my community), it is hard for me to fully accept that I would be welcomed at these gatherings. Despite my attempts at self-improvement and self-acceptance, my inner teenager feels inept, awkward, and nervous in the crowd. In nearly every crowd, as I never quite fit in with the black bourgeoisie either. Fitting in has just not ever been my strongest suit.
But as a friend told me (another isolate, though introverted and not extroverted as I am) for the kids, for their development, for their friendships and relations, we have to make that effort even if we are afraid. Even if we fear judgment or attack. Even if it kills us. And you know, though it appears that this group is "keeping up" with each other, they are not checking for me. I am not part of the game. We had a perfectly lovely visit to our baby girl's school, enjoyed the projects and pictures posted all around for us to see, and even met some warm individuals. I know the projection is mine to deal with, something I work on all the time. But consider, if I, an outgoing, open, smiling individual fears being unwelcome, excluded and nearly missed such a wonderful event, how many others without the same social tools are avoiding all contact entirely? Who are not sending their kids to these great schools. Are not participating in events that can advance their children's education, experiences, development. Who feel like the dream is not meant for them.
I will meet anyone, greet anyone, if it means that I can hand over a place in the world for my people where they feel welcomed, considered, and included. I don't think it serves them or me to isolate ourselves. But I also hope that no one continues to keep their group closed, hiding all the assets and casting doubt that the world is indeed the oyster of everyone and not just a chosen few.
(c) Copyright 2012. Repatriated Mama: Back to the Suburban Grind.
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