High School
I often think about high school through a pessimistic lens. It’s sad to say, but it’s simply my truth.
Students walk through halls day after day. You might have made eye contact with another, a slight nod, raise of your hand to signify a subtle hello. Not too big of a gesture, no why would you draw attention to yourself? But of course, not too small either because then, well then you would be a fool to say hello at all. It’s hard to capture the routine. The script that i’ve felt like i’ve practiced for so long. And when I say script I don’t mean long and elegant practiced conversations that loop and twirl, dancing around the participants of this speech. I more mean the inside page of a trashy tabloid. The headlines are bold and red in some awkward generic font. That issue’s theme might have to do with the embarrassing things we said in passing which made an awkward conversation unbearable. Or maybe it’s as simple as scrutinizing a bad outfit, a poor grade, a failed relationship. Whatever it is this newspaper, which you might be surprised to find out, has one subscriber and one author.
And guess what?
It’s the same person, you!
You will always be your own worst critic, pulling apart your life bit by bit until the only thing left are the threads of the person you used to be. You can pretend to be chipper, to put on a friendly smile and act “cool”. Because that’s what we see everyone else around us do.
Right?
I mean they sit in their perfect circle, with their perfect outfit, and their perfect friends. Holding cellphones, not interacting. Flippant glances protect their peace from anything deemed “embarrassing” or “childish”.
I used to take a seat here. I used to want, no, I used to so desperately need, to be there. Absolutely bored out of my mind, feeling like I was living a half life as half of myself because breaking character, going off script, that’s scary.
It’s scary to stand up and carry yourself into a different circle. One where you might just call everyone there a friend. Not the friends who you say are your friends, but deep down you know if you tried to call them out of the blue they wouldn’t answer, and even if they did they’d pick up in a haughty tone and tell you they couldn’t talk because did you forget?
You really aren’t friends.
No, I mean
FRIENDS.
People who you dance with, and sit in circles and play guitar with, singing sweet songs with not so sweet voices, but who cares if you can’t sing? Being you, showing up, sitting down in that bent and beautiful and definitely not perfect circle that is what matters.
So next time you put on your glasses switch out the pessimistic lenses for ones that actually let you see.
