grow up

I remember it so clearly: it was the fifth grade, we were on the upper playground, whiling away the noontime recess after lunch. It was warm out, late spring, maybe, and I was sitting with the other girls when Kevin came up to me and asked to speak with me away from the others. He was with Mookie, two of the more popular boys in the class, and good friends of mine, so it didn’t seem odd or suspicious in any way. I left the other girls and followed them out about 20 feet or so, away from anyone who could hear us. A huddle of girls on one side of the yard, another of boys on the other.

Kevin cleared his throat. Looked down for a second and then straight at me. Mookie was fidgeting with some kind of anticipation as I waited for one of them to say something. “We just wanted to tell you, that all the boys were talking, and we decided that you were one of the nicest girls. And the coolest.”

“Yeah, you’re really bitchin’”, that would be Mookie, who had decided “bitchin’” was the word of the month.

So far, nothing out of the ordinary. I mean, it’s nothing I’d ever really considered before, but I was cool. Or at least an approximation of that in a way that was acceptable in my eyes. I went to all the same parties, hung out with the same people, did all the same things afterschool. I didn’t really care or think about what I looked like, but never questioned whether anyone else did.

“But, none of us will ever go out with you because you’re too ugly.” Okay, so maybe that’s not what he said, exactly. But it’s close enough, and that’s definitely what I heard.

It didn’t hurt. When you’re 10, you don’t really have the resources to feel pain or indignation at judgment that’s being passed at you. After all, they’d had a conference, and it was decided. I was too ugly ever to be considered. But I was nice. I think I thanked them. I’m sure I did. And then I walked back over to the girls and sat down, continuing our conversation where we’d left off, and shelving this somewhere in the back of my mind. Where it would sit and slowly ferment until it pushed itself back into the front.

I didn’t actually remember this until years and years later. Somewhere in college, as I was telling Idaho a story about something, this popped into my head, and I remembered. And in that instance, nearly a decade after it happened, everything I hadn’t felt before flooded me unawares: hurt, anger, shame, sadness, betrayal.

Do we ever escape our fifth grade selves, in the end?