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In fifth grade, I learned a lot about math, spelling, and ostracism.
Mr. Romani taught me about math. Mrs. Simmons taught me about spelling.
My classmates taught me about ostracism.
Throughout grade school, I tried to remain inconspicuous, the reason being that my shyness, studiousness and short stature opened me up to all sorts of teasing — although any one of the three traits would have been enough. It seemed like the more my classmates saw of me, the more they could find to pick on. I got by with a few friends and a burning desire to grow up and break loose from the miserable prison of pre-adolescence.
But there were several times when the spotlight shined on those of us who were trying to duck the wrath of our tormentors. Our status was exposed whenever the gym teacher lined us up against the wall and commanded two of our more popular peers to “pick teams” in order of who was the most skilled (or, more commonly, who their friends were). A few of us were, as happens in most elementary schools, always chosen last. But there were even more reasons for concern outside of gym, because often in other classes, our teachers would make us to pick partners or groups with whom to work on various class projects. It always seemed to me that in elementary school there was entirely too much “picking” going on.
There is one incident that sticks out in my mind. It was Mrs. King’s class, fifth grade, and I spent the first six hours of the day cringing in dread of social studies, which was always the last subject just before school let out. I knew that we were set to begin a unit in Latin America that day, and that our teacher was going to tell us to pick groups with whom to do a report on a Latin American nation of our choice.
The thought gnawed at me all through science, while everyone else was concentrating on a nature film. I put my head on my desk and watched as a bear ran toward a group of wildebeest. He managed to attack one of them. The other wildebeests immediately bounded away to safety without looking back.
The film ended, and I pulled out a pack of gum that I’d brought on purpose because of social studies. In elementary school, candy was the greatest friend-magnet ever invented.
“Can I have some?” asked a girl named Jodi Mason, who wasn’t a good friend but was nice enough to me sometimes. I gave it to her quickly, knowing that she was my only hope. Having gum would increase my market value if Jodi Mason remembered about it during picking time.
“Does anyone have any questions about the film?” Mrs. King asked us, and as usual, nobody said anything. “Any comments?” I hoped that somebody would generate a huge discussion, and we wouldn’t have time for social studies. Carol Anderson raised her hand.
“Why didn’t all of the wildebeests stay and try to help their friend?” she asked.
Mrs. King said that it was probably in their nature to run, and then it was time for social studies.
Mrs. King walked to the front of the room. The butterflies in my stomach went into a frenzy.
I tried to will her to say that we didn’t have time to start groups today. I did a lot of willing in elementary school, and many times I prayed for ESP. One time I’d silently put a curse on the bicycle of the girl across the street from me after she’d gotten her friends to make faces at my little brother on the bus. She fell off the bike and twisted her ankle the next day. I got scared after that and decided I that I would limit my curses to minor cuts and abrasions.
But today, it appeared that my psychic powers were not with me.
“Okay,” Mrs. King said. “Alyssa will pass out lists of Latin-American countries for you to do your project on. I need everybody to get into groups of three or four people. We only have ten minutes left, so for today just decide on a country. We’ll do more tomorrow.”
At once the calls went out. Harriet Ballentine, Kimmy Shipman, and Beth Craig pushed their desks together, and motioned eagerly for Lisa Wallace to join them. Clusters formed like in a chemical reaction. I just didn’t have the courage to ask someone to join their group and risk the humiliation of being rejected. But if I didn’t think fast, I would have to endure the slightly more bearable humiliation of going up to Mrs. King and mumbling, “I’m not in a group.”
I looked around the room. Only one other girl wasn’t in a group: a shy, southern girl named Jennifer Pratt. Jennifer Pratt was the most common target of teasing in our class. Her main problem was that she was, to put it euphemistically, overdeveloped for her age. The second most common teasing victim in my class was a short, quiet student named Sylvia Gomez, who unfortunately was absent that day, making me feel even less secure. Within the ranks of the taunted, I was thankful for Jen and Sylvia, because they kept the attention off me, and kept me from being last-picked.
I did have some friends in my grade, but none of them had ended up in my class that year. Besides, they were a minority, and wouldn’t exactly stand up to the popular kids.
I thought for a second. There was still hope. I opted for my second favorite defense mechanism, after the ESP trick: the bathroom escape.
I asked Mrs. King to let me go, and she did. I walked down the white halls to the bathroom and entered the first stall, which was the only one with a lock that worked. My plan was simple: when I eventually returned to the classroom and had no where to go, it would be obvious to everyone that I had simply been in the bathroom during “picking” time, and Mrs. King would quickly put me into a group. No embarrassment, no sitting in the corner looking friendless and lost.
I crouched on the toilet for several minutes, straining to read the writing on the walls that revealed that Heather loved Mike forever and that Van Halen was #1. Then I stared at the ceiling and began to think. Why did Mrs. King leave the selection of a Latin American country up to us? Couldn’t she see that everyone would pick Mexico? No one had even heard of Ecuador and Paraguay.
After a while, I left the stall and trudged slowly down the empty hallway, testing how loudly I could squeak my shoes against the cold floor. It had begun to rain, and I stopped to watch the raindrops chase each other in zigzag patterns down the hallway’s large glass windows. I stood for a minute, watching them.
When I finally returned to the classroom, Mrs. King was in the corner talking to Dawn Forrest’s group. I unsuccessfully willed her to look at me. Everyone seemed busy, except Jennifer Pratt, the aforementioned puberty queen. Jen was doing her math homework so as not to be obvious. She looked up, and we sort of looked at each other, wondering if either of us would have the guts to ask the other to join her.
But we were both shy and insecure, and the bell rang. I ran to the closet, grabbed my blue raincoat and headed for the bus. I knew I would have to face social studies again the next day, but I tried to concentrate on other things.
When I got home, I helped my little brother with his kindergarten homework. My father was supposed to be the one to help, but he said he’d had a tough day. I wondered what was so tough about any day an adult could have. If you didn’t like the people you were with, you could leave. If you didn’t want to play a game, you didn’t have to.
The next day, social studies started an hour before school was to end. There was no way I could stay in the bathroom for a whole hour. I looked back at Jennifer and Sylvia, who were both alone, glancing around quickly and pulling out work to do. I decided that I would tell Mrs. King that all three of us needed to be put into groups. Probably, she would get up and direct the three of us to form our own group, which would be fine. In fact, it would be pretty good. I arose from my seat and slowly made my way around the clusters of desks toward the front of the room.
On the way up, I passed Jodi Mason’s group. She was with Allison Lord and Vicki Donahue. They weren’t the most popular girls in the class, but they were semi-popular. I had been in a group with them once before, and I had ended up doing most of the research, while the three of them worked on the cover.
Jodi looked up at me, and then smiled. “Hey, you’re not in a group?” she asked. I replied that I wasn’t. Jodi exchanged glances with her friends. “We only have three,” she said. “Remember last time you worked with us, and we got an A?”
All three of them smiled sweetly. I looked at Mrs. King, who was sitting at her desk concentrating intently on her gradebook.
“Come on; we’re doing Mexico,” Jodi said to me, motioning toward an empty spot.
“Yeah, come on,” Allison purred.
Vicki smiled and nodded.
“Okay,” I said, pushing a desk together with theirs. I sat down with them, and I looked back at Sylvia and Jen, and I felt a lot like a wildebeest.
