Ninth Grade Nonsense

My best friend calls me a coupla weeks ago, and she tells me, “Our class is making a thirtieth year reunion. Did anyone call you?”

“Nope,” I said.

“Were you in our Yiddish class?” she asked.

Now, you probably can’t imagine being best friends with someone all your life and then not remembering if your best friend was in your high school class for all four years. And it’s not as though I was this quiet, aydel kid that barely anyone noticed.

I laughed. “I was kicked out of our ninth grade class during the year and switched over to the other Yiddish class. And then I was changed about two months later into a Hebrew class. And then the next year, when I wanted to switch back in to our class, I don’t remember exactly what happened. Maybe I got in and then got kicked out again?”

(So, you get the picture that an angel I wasn’t, right?)

But I went to the 30^th year reunion anyway, because I love milchig, it would be fun to see everyone, and I was in that class for at least a year and a half. How does that make sense if I was kicked out midway of ninth grade? Here’s the story.

In seventh grade, I lost all my friends. I was popular, then I wasn’t. Long story. I woke up every morning with a pit in my stomach and some butterflies flapping around. Some caterpillars maybe too.

I went to camp (disastrous summer I told you about last time), and by the time I came back, I wanted to go to sleep and not wake up until I was married so I could make my kids miserable. That didn’t work. My mother woke me up one morning and said brightly, “How would you like to switch schools?”

Now, I love my mother very much, but she didn’t have a clue how miserable I was in seventh grade, unless she did and she figured out a way to save me. But I won’t kid you. The reason my mother suggested this was because my little sister was starting first grade in a different school, and my mother figured out that if I would switch schools I could walk her to school each morning instead of my mother having to be busy with busses again. My mother grew up in a different country and she had no idea how weird and uncool it was for someone to change schools in 8^th grade. But it didn’t take me a second to say, “Yes!” It was my ticket out of Butterfly-and-Caterpillar Pit Land.

Best thing I ever did.

Within a day I was accepted and registered (in those days you got accepted to any school or camp you wanted to go to, even if you were a discipline problem—which I was), and because my old school was supposed to begin a week later than my new school, I actually arrived to school a week into the school year.

I was given a choice into which class to enter. There were 4 choices and I randomly chose one by a process of elimination and hoped for the best.

It was a very strange year, looking back.

For the first time in six years I behaved in class (I behaved in first and second grade because I was in yet a different school…another long story). Except for during science class. Even though I met my science teacher in the Plaza Hotel in Eretz Yisroel this past year and she didn’t recognize me! So I could not have been that bad…yes, I was! She was too old to remember stuff anymore, I guess. But anyway, I actually behaved and my stomach settled down that year.

But other weird stuff happened that I don’t think would happen to a girl today. Teachers and principals are more careful, I think. (I hope!)

For example, I went for Shabbos to some family friends and only came back on Tuesday instead of Monday. Big deal, right? Well, it was a big deal, because when I came back, everyone had gotten their yearbook and G.O jobs and somehow they had forgotten about me.  I don’t really understand how that happened, but I felt it was nerdy to care, so I pretended not to, so I didn’t say anything. Not to my new friends, not to my teachers who I really liked, and not even to my mother. And when everyone else was busy with yearbook pictures, I kind of hung out in the bathroom. Even though there were so many things I could have done. Gymnastics. Editor. Feature. Head of Something or even Part of Something. That was very hurtful.

And then I worked hours on articles for the yearbook. Poems and compositions (that’s what we called them in those days) both in English and in Hebrew. And then some silly little article was included, without me even having a choice. And my Yiddish teacher called me over and said she is so sorry but she somehow mislaid my Hebrew piece and it got lost and the yearbook already went to print. Of course I pretended not to care.

But it hurt. Maybe I even cried when no one saw.

So what did I do?

I did what I usually do. I create things to do. Usually mischief, but in this case, I threw my energy into convincing my classmates and principals that the eighth grade MUST have a Chagigah. I got the idea from my sister, who had those kinds of stuff in high school. I don’t remember if this was for Chanukah or Purim. I think Chanukah. I was able to channel my mischief into good things because my teacher was a basically good person. My principals were attuned to their students. The classes were interesting and the girls in my class were my type. So many things that made things right even when other things went wrong.

And I galvanized my class into becoming enthusiastic about the idea, organized everyone into jobs, sent them off to do their jobs, invited the other 3 classes, invited our teachers, and for the very first time in history, my school had a Chagigah. I was very proud to hear that the next year, the eighth grade made a Chagigah, beginning a trend that I first had started.

How did this story begin?

With my 30^th year Reunion. Because this eighth grade class went basically intact into the community High School and I went right along with it.

But somewhere I got derailed. Teachers that could not control the class. Me, who I could not control my fidgeting and boredom and mouth. And got myself kicked out of that ninth grade class. High school was simply not the same as my eighth year elementary school had been. And so, neither was I.

Hmm. I think back to what I could have done differently.

Talk to my principal and explain how hard I was trying but how much harder it was to be successful. Apologize to my teacher when I was wrong. Let my parents know what was happening. I was a big girl, not a little kid anymore. I had a mouth. I could have used it for something smart, for once. Lots of stuff. Probably even therapy to learn ways to control my behavior—or figure out why I was acting this way to begin with.

But I didn’t. Because I didn’t know how and didn’t realize they would have been so happy to talk to me, to help me, if only I would have reached out. Because I think they tried. I just could not listen.

Teenagers somehow take the complicated route when the straight path is easier…

By the way, the reunion was fun! And I behaved! (Mostly, my best friend said.)

Originally published in Mishpacha Teen’s Magazine