This doesn’t feel done but I’m tired of looking at it…
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By my senior year of high school, we’d outclassed traditional education systems via the internet. Ultimately, radio waves don’t travel far and the news you get is subject to who gives it. Television began the brave new world with national networks warring for the most “true” point of view. It quickly became clear – those who provide perspective control the way people think. Fear-based reporting and showmanship was only made worse by internet availability. Vying for attention of youtube likers and tweeters as if it means something. We don’t feel oppressed by this situation, the same way dogs don’t think about how wolves live.
Back then I didn’t know anything about perspective. Living in my own world, I at least latched onto the concept of integrity. Honest to a fault, I figure the threat of retribution is more bearable than the pain of living a lie. I like what I like, think what I think. The fallout from that is mere white noise against the backdrop of living with myself forever. No one knows better how unbearable I am. Holding my ground when things get rough, I often imagine how ridiculous I seem to people who aren’t me. Heartbeat accelerating, my face flushes and I feel eyes rolling. Their judgement isn’t wrong but that’s why standing up for yourself is hard to do. Self awareness makes it worth it.
My introverted nature blossomed during Junior High. Breasts I couldn’t hide led to behavior I couldn’t control. The boys that were friends silently fantasized about my jugs. The not-friends were just plain mean. Probably because they fantasized about my jugs. I never tattled when boys playfully poked and tickled me, behavior that’s now labeled sexual harassment. My protests were more pugilistic and immediate. Once, I chased a kid into the boys’ locker room after he “honked” my breasts. The male Coach sent me to the principal for causing a disruption. Fortunately Mrs. Gallick, the female PE coach, defended me even if she didn’t agree with my reaction. I hated gym class in general. Boobs only made it more insufferable.
Mrs. Gallick also worked at St. Mary’s and she’s the reason I got out of phys ed for 3 of my four years. I ran the scoreboard and helped managed most of the sports teams. Awarded honorary Varsity standing my senior year, I lettered in not breaking a sweat. The things I commonly do to support an operation don’t show up directly in post, short of the product itself existing. As a result, I don’t qualify for many awards. The only place I’ve ever excelled is with my integrity. I toe the line of subversive without needing to tell lies. The result is an ability to step back and reevaluate some of the most basic tenets set before us. Questioning everything is an exhausting way of life but it’s better than being a sucker.
Humanities II was a course created for the St. Mary’s senior class of 1999 as a way to acknowledge our eclectic group of promising intellects. I believe the goal of the course was to cultivate critical thinking but the result felt more like a cotillion on fine arts. The only thing missing was voice lessons and a piano forte, both things I’d ironically relish. True St. Mary’s girls are always in band, choir or both. Two classes I’d never taken because I have no discernible music talent. Singing in the shower doesn’t count. I personally requested a Creative Writing II course that year because it was my only real interest. They let me take Creative Writing I a second time and design assignments based on my own goals.
I was offered a chance at this advanced elective based on my writing skills and overt interest in philosophy. The first day we sat in a semicircle of ten girls facing the teacher. Moving desks out of their traditional grid pattern indicated the advanced nature of the course, clearly superior to regular classrooms. We sat quietly, blank notebooks open, pens in hand. Most of us had already scrawled Humanities II across the top line in some stylized font and dated the upper right-hand corner of the page. Taught by the most progressive liberal on staff, a short-haired woman who kept her last name while living in a common law marriage, Ms. Traffas faced us all and asked plainly, “Who are you?”
Tacit glances and a shuffling of feet, no one quite knows what to do with the question. With theatrical timing, our instructor repeats herself a handful of times. Who ARE you? Who are YOU? WHO are you? Pacing and gesturing with each slightly different intonation, we let the repetition wash over us. I smirk slightly with amusement, convinced most of these girls have never even thought about the question. And yet, I’m not sure enough of myself to posit an answer. Finally, turning to the desk positioned closest to her, Ms. Traffas asks Annie directly, “Who are you?”
A star pupil, universally liked, Annie stumbles through her thoughts out loud for the benefit of the class. “I’m, uh… a, girl,” slowly casting for whatever answer might be considered correct. After a pregnant pause, Traffas lifts her eyebrows and asks incredulously, “Is that all?”
Annie predictably begins to search for a better answer, “Uh, well,” her eyes brighten, “I’m a woman,” emphasizing the noun, “and, uh, a Christian.” Traffas nods and uses emphatic upward hand motions to extend the answer, “Oh um, who plays soccer and,” glancing around, “I’m a daughter and sister. And, uh, I’m going to college to become an obstetrician. Because I love babies.” Finishing with confidence, she looks hopefully at Traffas for approval.
Traffas succinctly chirps, “Okay!” and moves to the next student in line, “Who are YOU?”
The next girl timidly repeats a list of things to describe her self, somewhat similar to Annie’s response. Traffas moves on without comment, proceeding down the line with increasing speed asking each girl the same question. They each state themselves as Christian women followed by a variety of details. Most include references to family and a couple even work in something about pets. The one black girl adds an appropriate addendum with verbal underline. I listen to their answers with increasing panic. Not sure what my answer actually is, I can definitively say it doesn’t start with gender or religion.
Second from last in the line, each response steels me against the obvious truth. I don’t have a correct answer. Already knowing solidly I’m not Christian, I pick at the idea that I’m a woman. Can I say that with confidence? I have the right genitalia but is that really how I answer the question of my true being? A social outcast at an all girls’ school accentuating how starkly non-traditional I am, it’s hard to say I’m defined by such a literal noun. Traffas’s attention is almost aimed at me and I don’t have a solid answer. Presented the question Who-are-you? I begrudgingly mumble, “I don’t know.”
She doubles back with the same refrain, “Who ARE you?” clenching fists as punctuation. Taking a moment, I flush red while people stare. I don’t have an answer and that frustrates the hell out of me. Sighing audibly and furrowing my brow, I realize my honest answer is the only one I can give. I sit back serenely, state firmly, “I don’t know,” and cross my arms for emphasis.
Giving up on my response with a wry smile Traffas says, “Yes, well, you have to really think about it. What makes you YOU?” She moves to the last girl and another somewhat canned response.
I inadvertently spoiled her big reveal. Despite our egos, none of us know who we are most of the time. If you can concoct an answer on the spot it’s a snapshot of your being, at best. The pictures we choose are rarely honest. Knowing who you are takes newtons of effort and high school students don’t spend much time on that in class. My instructor attempted to shake loose our thinking and I got there faster than expected
That day set the tone for my semester in Humanities II. The decisions I made in that class seemed to always cause strife. An assignment to write an ode became a surprise requirement to sing it in front of the class. My stage fright was in its infancy then but the pressure to sing unaccompanied in front my classmates brought on pure terror. Another part of the class was performing in front of our friends and family for a hodgepodge follies of artistic expression. I protested this requirement stringently. It was decided I would recite Chaucer’s opening to Canterbury Tales in old English – something every SMS girl memorized junior year. When my time on stage came, I hid in the bathroom crying.
My insecurity performing is just an extension of anxiety problems in general. Not knowing this back then, I simply believed trying to sing in front of people would make me die. My first panic attack, in hindsight. Traffas threatened to fail me for the refusal to perform. My mother, not understanding my reasons at least defended my obvious terror. No one in that school seemed willing to admit that my fear had value. I began to think I might really be crazy but that didn’t make my feelings less real. The result was a C on my report card, a compromise I accepted happily.
Ironically, that class exhibited more of who I am than any other part of my high school career. Before then, I’d follow instructions without thought and assume my elders know better. Huddled in a restroom stall sobbing I discovered a reality where conformity is taken for granted . Sometimes we are different in ways we can’t control and telling someone they are wrong for feeling something is terrible. Melodrama is compared to high school behavior because that’s where we feel things the most acutely.