It's rough being in sixth grade. Not knowing who you are. Not knowing who you can trust. One example: the elementary school playground. One day, walking back in from recess, I divulged a dear heart secret of mine to three girls I thought were my very good friends: I wanted to earn a 4.0 grade point average. They all achieved this feat of scholasticism on a regular basis and met my aspiration with hearty guffaws.
"You? A 4.0? Hahahahaha!"
I felt lower than dirt. I wanted to sink into the black top and disappear. My eyes welled up and over flowed. I burst into tears as my heart broke and my body tried to run from the scene. Caught by our kind teacher, I struggled through sobs and snuffles to explain the source of my trauma.
"I told my friends I wanted to earn a 4.0 and they laughed at me!"
God that sucked. I don't know which was worse: my friend's reactions or having to confess my heartbreak to the teacher. She reassured me somehow, planting seeds of the life lesson that living by the opinions of others would only lead me to suffering. I somehow managed to stuff my feelings back into my torso and gain enough control of myself to return to the class, but it was a lasting traumatic event in a verily pock-marked childhood.
You know what's funny? These three friends and I all went to the same magnet program in high school and it wasn't until we went our separate ways for college that I earned my first 4.0. Or so I thought. When I finally met my sixth grade heart's goal, I was beaming with pride and joy. A few years later, for some college scholarship application, I think, I had to submit all scholastic transcripts, including elementary school. You know what it showed? My last semester at St. Joseph's elementary school--my eigth grade year--I had a 4.0! I was flabbergasted. Turns out I carried an emotional chip on my shoulder for nothing for six years. Silliness.
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