Tenth Grade
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Tenth Grade
There were no miraculous suggestions, books, pills or other devices
which could have properly prepared me for the onset of growing pains.
My High School years, more than any other time in my life, proved to be
the toughest emotional battleground. As I grew physically, mentally
and socially, my emotions were constantly fluctuating, eventually
creating a finely-honed, razor-sharp edge on which all interaction was
carved into a deep and memorable impression in my mind.
Tenth grade came as somewhat of a shock. It reminded me of the terrors
of seventh grade, for I had a different locker, an entirely foreign
building and a new and larger mass of faces to which I was supposed to
become accustomed. The lunch room appeared enormous to my nervous
stomach, and among the flood of students pressed before the snack
counter, I considered myself lucky to have made it to the front to
order. Once I had my lunch, usually a long john and orange drink, in
my possession, I turned reluctantly to search in desperation for a
familiar face with whom I could sit and more pleasantly pass the time.
If I saw no one, I would find a seat apart from the various
congregations and open a book as if trying to read. While I ingested
my donuts the words danced meaninglessly across the page beneath my
unseeing eyes; insecurity prevented me from attempting to seek my
acquaintances just as pride demanded that my attention be riveted to a
book.
The classes were not as distressing as lunch time, with the possible
exception of physical education, since they were governed by one's
teachers rather than oneself and generally did not reflect complete
anarchy. I was much more relaxed in a routine setting wherein nothing
was left to chance; I had no anxiety toward finding a seat, since one's
initial choice usually lasted the entire semester, nor was conversation
a worry because it was not permitted after the beginning of class
anyway, and if I failed to unearth rare gems of humor, silence did not
endure so far as to become embarrassing.
I disliked negative attention and therefore often neglected to raise my
hand during class discussions. Of course, if the truth shall be made
known, I so despised directing another's gaze, that virtually any
attention was, from my point of view, "negative." Therefore, if I
raised my hand, I wished to be certain my statement was correct and
sometimes went as far as writing my answer on paper so that I would not
stumble on my own tongue, as was my habit in a stressful situation.
Another habit, however, sometimes impeded my valiant intentions. That,
by name, was day-dreaming. Having an innate stubbornness within me, I
would foster ill-will toward subjects which, despite my greatest
effort, I failed to grasp; enter, day-dreaming. Such was the case with
an "Honors English" class which I made the mistake of accepting. The
class was basically the duplicate of "regular" tenth grade English but
wielded a decidedly tougher grading scale and a faster pace. Only one
of the three teachers who taught the over-sized class had sensible
expectations of the students and a personality which reflected no
favoritism among her subjects; unfortunately, I was lucky enough to
study under her guidance only the last semester. The first semester I
fell under the instruction of one of the other women; she was single,
opinionated and sharp-tongued, and had the habit of dissecting the
least complicated story into shreds of symbolism and hidden meaning
which would have amused the authors to no end had they been alive to
contest her brave statements. The teacher had no room for differing
opinions; the only way to succeed on tests was to regurgitate that
which she had proclaimed as having relevancy or truth. Reflecting on
her marital status, I quickly understood.
Seated in English class one day, I found myself lured from the
discussion momentarily to exercise some uninvited thought. When I
returned my awareness to the classroom the teacher was looking around
the room for a volunteer to answer her last question. I decided to
raise my arm to reply, and she nodded that I should speak. After
giving my answer, the teacher studied me indifferently and remarked,
"That answer has already been given." I shifted uneasily in my chair,
deciding to follow the lesson more closely. Several questions later,
another multiple-answer question was presented to the class. Hands
went up around the room and answers rushed into the teacher's ears. A
favorite student raised her hand to offer a reply, and when bidden to
speak, her answer was a virtual carbon copy of the previous speaker's.
The instructor smiled at her pleasantly. "That answer has already been
mentioned, however, since it is of such consequence, I'm glad you
repeated it." I stared in disbelief and knew that I had no hope of
winning under conditions as deplorable as those I had just witnessed.
With the initiation into high school, I decided to attempt a routine as
near to normal as my system would allow. The last thing I desired was
a complication which would separate me from other students, so I
elected to store cookies in my locker to provide the extra energy I
sometimes required to alleviate an infuriated stomach or an aching head
between meals. I tried to forego my snacks entirely, but decided my
action was unwise after repeated and quite audible rumblings of ignored
hunger pangs during class. Because the consumption of my snack would
occasionally swallow an extra minute of my time, I procured a note from
the school administrator that officially excused a late entry into
class. I rarely needed the note, and the teachers knew I was not the
type to abuse such a privilege; the system worked very well.
I felt more "normal" physically than I had for many months, and decided
that I should try to negotiate a hated physical education class even
though I would not have had to do so given my health history. Although
it was tempting to avoid the issue altogether by procuring a medical
excuse from my doctor, I did not wish to invite failure through
cowardice on my behalf. Too often I watched people use health problems
to buffer a difficult situation or create an unwarranted advantage when
in actuality, their only lameness was the excuse which formed on their
lips.
My progress in physical education depended to a large extent on the
progress made by my stomach to digest its food. If it decided to
cooperate, my activity was in no way impeded. However, because of its
irregularity, such cooperation was markedly infrequent and I would
often find myself uncomfortably nauseous; as the sports grew more
demanding, I knew that the class was not going to be acceptable. I was
of no value to the team if staving off the urge to vomit, and the
teachers disbelieved my need to sit quietly on the side lines. "You
look fine to me," their appraisal seemed to say. I almost wished my
stomach would yield to its sickness and give the doubting teachers an
eyeful to cure them of their disbelief. Eventually I asked my doctor
to write a medical excuse for me which served to place me in the
library for "study hall"; this arrangement pleased me for I was then
free to study, read, or dream as dictated by my mood. Physical
activity was pursued at home during periods of good health; this was no
awkward adjustment since I desired to maintain my fitness, and when I
felt well, I did not spend time slumped sluggishly in a chair. Seated
in the library, I reflected gratefully that I had not taken any drastic
measures before securing the written excuse; I also knew that, since I
was no tyrant, I probably could not have given such a gruesome display
even if it had been a foremost desire.
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