Can I Sit With You?

by Seymour Rosenberg
Age twelve at the time

In 1983, California's largest almond growers' concern sent me and the rest of my Catholic School's eighth grade class on a field trip to Sacramento. Woo-hoo!

As you know, you are the music you listen to, even in eighth grade. I liked Gary Numan, Pat Benatar, and the Talking Heads, but none of my classmates did. Even so, I wanted the cool kids to think I was one of them and come hang out with me. I'd seen them scribbling "Van Halen" all over their Pee-Chee folders and notebooks, so I bought a Van Halen painter's hat and wore it on the bus. And it actually worked! Several people came and sat with me, saying, "I didn't know you liked Van Halen!"

So began many fruitless years of trying to achieve coolness points through musical means.

(At least the hat matched my blue and red corduroy OP shorts.)

By Giedra Campbell
Age eight to present

In fourth grade I started going to a small magnet school. That first year it was easy to be friends with all the girls in my class—there were only seven of us, and eighteen boys. We seven hung fairly closely together, in part because of the efforts of Ms. Shainey, our teacher, who arranged special activities with the girls so we wouldn't be overwhelmed by all those boys. She told us that women could be anything they wanted, and used us to help teach diversity workshops. She'd have us act out scenes from a record called Free to be You and Me to teach about prejudice and stereotypes. In my scene, my friend Amanda and I pretended to be babies, and to be confused about who was a girl and who was a boy ("You're bald, so you must be a boy"). Our scene showed how you shouldn't make assumptions about someone based on looks, nor limit someone based on their sex.

Come fifth grade, the number of girls in the class rocketed up to fourteen, and that's when cliques started forming. Two of the new girls and five of the fourth grade group formed a group they called the Super Seven. I don't know that they ever actively shunned me, but for whatever reason, I was not part of their group. They gathered on the parallel bars, separate and superior. Meanwhile over at the jungle gym, four of the new girls and I became the Fabulous Five. We modeled the name on the Super Seven, but we didn't really know what our club was supposed to do.

Probably the Super Seven didn't know either, but it seemed like the Super Seven was about boys and clothes. Those girls were the ones who were "going with" boys (and kissing! on the obstacle course!) or at least excited about the possibility. We Fabulous Five were uncomfortable with that idea. The only thing I remember from our club was talking about was how horrendous it would be to get your period, and to therefore have to carry a purse. We'd then scan the playground looking for purses so we could gossip about their owners, even as we'd just admitted that such attention would be awful.

There were three other girls in the class, too. I am embarrassed to confess that we called them the Terrible Three. Not only is it not alliterative, but I can't think of a single terrible thing about them. They just happened to be the most different. Valentina, who had been in fourth grade with the rest of us, was the youngest in the class by over a year and had the longest hair in school. Shaleena was the only black girl in the whole program, and had a British accent. And she wore a bra. Because she needed to. And she carried a purse. And the last girl, Phillipa, well, I can't even identify a difference in her case. She was the tallest girl in the class, but were we really that shallow? (In hindsight I see that all three also had unusual names, but by that criterion, clearly I should have been in their group!)

The groups did not stay the same for long—I don't even remember how long those "clubs" lasted, but certainly there was shuffling of alliances all throughout sixth grade and junior high. By the time we got to high school, my best friends were Kara, a fellow Fabulous Fiver, and Shelley and Amanda—two of the Super Sevens. Throughout junior high we had cemented our friendships mostly through our time in choir and drama together, making up silly dances for talent shows and musicals, and skipping through the halls of our junior high singing "Follow the Yellow Brick Road" and "Born Free!" at the top of our lungs.

In ninth grade, we made new friends, but also stayed close to one another. Or so I thought. Until I read what Amanda wrote in my yearbook:

"..…I'm glad that us four got to be good friends last year and this year. But understand that I changed a lot, and by the end of the summer I'll need some constant and reliable friends. I just don't like singing in the hallway and dancing. I dunno, it's fun at someone's house but otherwise it's embarrassing—pretty soon it'll hit you and you'll die! Sorry—this sounds so degrading, but the truth is you're such good friends. Anyway, loosen up and learn to party….."

And just like that, Amanda and I were never friends again. I don't think she meant to hurt my feelings; she was only being honest. Though the words stung, she couldn't help it that the goofy antics of a big ole drama geek made her uncomfortable. But her discomfort with me was no different from the discomfort I felt about her world of popular kids. I know I felt just as negatively about her group as she felt about mine.

By the end of high school, Shelley and Valentina were among my closest friends—never mind our having been in three separate cliques in fifth grade. The glue that held us together was in fact our shared experiences since fourth grade, and of course the fact that we all still thought singing in public was amusing.

As for Amanda? She died in a car accident, less than a month after we graduated. I was traveling at the time. When I returned, my mother gave me a newspaper containing the story, and I sat on the floor in my room reading it over and over again. The article told how Amanda had come in from riding her skateboard, had donned something for going out, and had parted from her dad for the last time, saying in her hip way, "Later days, Dad." (The article's next line? "There would be none.") The article spoke of the career in architecture that was not to be, and of Amanda's many, many friends. They made her sound so full of potential, so bright, so friendly, so loved.

I had mixed feelings. I didn't know how to mourn someone who was apparently too cool for me, even if she had once been a friend.

Twenty years later, I believe that Amanda was all of the things the article said she was. Of course she probably would have changed her major and career when she got to college, but she probably was a wonderful friend to her friends at the time and she had a promising future. And I also believe that she would have matured out of the cliquish place she was in in high school that led her to drop me as a friend—and even to tell me so in writing!

Nowadays, I have friends who were part of the popular crowd at their high school—people I know I would have avoided at the time. I bet Amanda would by now have made friends with some drama people. These days, she might have even been okay with watching me stand in public somewhere and belt out "...and you and me are free to be, you and me." I'd like to think so, anyway, because if no one appreciates differences, then there really is no point to being free to be YOU and to be ME.

by Eric Thomas
Age 12 at the time

Steve Ramirez was cool. Even as a sixth grader he could dance and play any sport well, make people laugh, and talk to girls without nausea. In other words, he was the polar opposite of me.

He broke his toe playing football in his front yard with other cool kids, and was in crutches for a few weeks. At school, his injury made him shine even brighter. Teachers and students alike wanted to carry his books while he crutched from class to class. Everyone asked him how he hurt himself, when he would get the cast off, did it hurt or itch.

I wasn't jealous of him. I didn't dislike or resent him. I liked him as much as everyone else.

A few weeks after Steve was off the crutches, I lay on my stomach on the floor of my room, kicking my right toe against the floor as hard as I could stand. I was trying to break my own toe. I kicked harder and harder, but stopped when it was clear that I didn't have the will to do any real damage.

As silly as it seems now, it seemed like a reasonable sacrifice to make in order to make a few friends.

by Victoria Davis
Age 11 at the time

The little girl sat at the edge of the classroom -- sensing the excitement but knowing her only form of participation could be observation. Squeals of delight came from the popular corner as white and pink tissue paper flew from the gift boxes wrapped in lots of curly ribbon.

Oh, she would get a gift too. But if she squealed it would be met with ridicule and various mimicking of whatever sound she made.

No, life was better for her if she was invisible. Teachers were oblivious or chose to tune out her peer-enforced solitude.

She loved people. She loved to tell jokes and laugh. But right now in this classroom -- she was the only joke. What would she do wrong today? Oh, it would be something.

And she'd see these girls at church again on Sunday with their curls, angelic smiles, and stockings, looking like the apples of their moms' eyes. Not saying anything, they would steal glances at one another as she spoke up in Sunday School -- oh, what fun they'd have tomorrow about this lesson!

And yet, there was one place she could go with complete acceptance. Her mother and father adored her and enveloped her in their respect, love, and care the moment she came home.

And -- in her room at night -- she'd open her Bible and read of her Saviour. He was a "man of sorrows." Enemies hung on his every word looking for their next point of contention with him. This man -- this Jesus -- knew what it felt like to be alone, to be made fun of even in church. To be left out and not fit in. He understands. He knows.

And snuggled under her covers beside a small lamp in the darkness, they met in conversation, talked about their day, and became best friends.

by elswhere
Age 13 at the time

I was a nerd in junior high school, but my friend A. was even worse off. She was new in town, she wore weird clothes, and her family didn’t have any money. She looked funny, too; all the kids called her “fish face.”

In spite of these strikes against her, A. was mysteriously self-confident. In 8th grade, she decided to run for Student Council vice-president. I was aghast: everyone knew Student Council was just a popularity contest, and A. was anything but popular. What was she thinking?!

But A. didn’t seem worried. She made posters, campaigned, did everything a Student Council candidate was supposed to do. Just as if she had a chance.

On the morning of the election, the whole school gathered in the auditorium to hear the candidates’ speeches. One after another, the candidates for treasurer and secretary stood at the podium and read carefully rehearsed banalities about how they would dedicate themselves to improving the school.

Finally, it was A.’s turn. My stomach clenched. I was mortified for her already. She was sure to say something weird, and even if she didn’t, just her being who she was and standing up in front of everyone was sure to be social suicide. It was bad enough that she got teased and harassed in the halls and at lunch: how much worse could it be to see her humiliate herself in front of the entire school?

A. stood up and approached the podium. The room rang out with hoots and whistles and cries of “Fish Face!” until the principal made everyone be quiet. A. waited patiently for silence, then began her to read her speech.

“Some of you call me Fish Face,” she said.

Pandemonium erupted! Once again the principal called for silence. When it was quiet enough for her to be heard, A. calmly continued her speech. She talked about how regardless of names people called her, the important thing was whether she would get things done on the Student Council. She talked about changes that needed to be made, and about her ideas for making them. She talked about how everyone said that Student Council was just a popularity contest, but that this was our chance to prove them wrong.

Everywhere in the halls that day, you heard the words, “Fish Face.” “Fish Face!” Nobody could believe it. Nobody could believe she’d had the guts. Nobody could stop talking about it.

A. won the election.

by Meredith Lom
Age 6 - 12 at the time

When I was little, one girl in my grade school class was the boss of all the other little girls. There was nothing special about her, really, save for being the youngest daughter in a big Mormon family; but in my town, even that wasn't exceptional.

Her parents had even given her the most boring name in the book -- they'd named her Khaki. She was one of those impossibly tiny creatures whose hair and skin were all the same translucent color. She was the pied piper of the playground, and since all the little girls had "friend crushes" on her, she was always successful in getting them to do her bidding.

One time, I invited her over to play on a Saturday, and she accepted, and the parental dance had been done, and she came over to my house. She and her mother pulled up in their yellow convertible (which was roughly the same color as her hair and skin). They found me playing in the yard. I was probably a mess like I was most Saturdays, being something of a tomboy. My father, then a dark-haired thirty-something with a preference for short red running shorts with white piping (which, come to think of it, were actually in fashion at that point), had been cursing and sweating and clipping the lawn.

Khaki and her mother took one look at the mess of us out there and climbed back into their hideous car. Her mother said, loudly, "Come along, Khaki, we don’t play with these kind of people.” And they left.

For the rest of grade school, Khaki was the master of my social demise -- of my not getting invited to birthday parties; of my not being included; of my not being asked to wear the same outfit as the other little girls on the same day. Khaki was vicious. The little girls would all do musicals together, under Khaki's direction, and I would not be included. I would watch, in quiet horror, as she would distribute invitations to come to her parties, and events, and shows, in our classes -- and deliberately skip past my desk. I was paralyzed by the exclusion.

I would say to the teacher, “Don’t you think it’s unfair that she doesn’t invite everyone?” And year after year, the teachers would look at me blankly, as if to tell me that unfairness was just part of growing up. Maybe that was true, and it was a painful lesson that we all had to learn. But that didn’t make it any easier when Khaki passed my desk, handing out candy hearts to the rest of the class. She would smile at me as she passed, polite as ever, but never once stopped to place a Valentine in my heart-shaped holiday folder. Being left out of her circle was heartbreaking.

Khaki’s family moved away to Utah by sixth grade. The other little girls threw her a lavish going away party at someone’s backyard pool. They handed out invitations on the last day of fifth grade. By that time, our public school had instituted a rule that if students were going to distribute invitations in the classroom, they would have to invite the whole class. So the girls handed out the coveted envelopes on the playground. I was grateful that I didn’t get one. I never remembered being quite so relieved to see someone go.

Years later, after I'd forgotten about Khaki entirely, I bumped into her by chance. I was a college student, and she was working at the local convenience store. "My parents said I could come out here for a year and try to make it as a backup dancer!" she exclaimed, happy to see me. But seeing her, I felt like I had been cheated. I had expected her to go on and do something fabulous and breathtaking. I had expected her to be the boss of all of Los Angeles. In reality, she was a store clerk, just trying to make a living.

She was tall, no longer impossibly tiny, and her hair was no longer yellow, rather a colorless grey. She had bumpy, red skin, a bad haircut, and a round face. She was not an attractive grownup. I smiled, and nodded, and paid for my granola bars and cheese, then ran back to my dorm room to join my friends for a party. Khaki was not invited.

By Lea Cuniberti-Duran
Elementary school years

I was born in Italy in the year 1967, just a year shy of the rising of the Student Movement and the beginning of the political rising, which in Europe, led to the blood stained 70's. Italy, at the time, was very much a Catholic country; kids were named after saints, and prayers were taught in school.

I was born the odd kid out: my mother is Jewish but was raised Catholic, in an attempt to escape the brutality of WWII, and my father was a Catholic turned Atheist. It was decided that I would not be baptized. The official line was that I was "given more choices", and I would be able to pick my religion as an adult.

In the mean time, my dad forbade me to go to church. I guess he did not want me to cloud my judgment or give in to peer pressure. Never mind that for the vast majority of people being part of a group is some sort of security blanket, and for a kid, blending-in is key.

Blending-in for me was never very easy. For one thing, my name is Lea (can you find a name that’s a bit more Jewish, please?), and then there was the fact that I was not baptized and I didn't attend church.

I don't remember anybody giving me too much grief about not being baptized until I hit grade school. Enter Mrs. Renata Manzoni, the woman who was going to be my teacher for a very long four years. Mrs. Manzoni was one of those human beings that takes it upon themselves to straighten out others. As an extremely devout Catholic, she could spot good from evil, and saving souls was high on her priority list.

It didn't take long for Mrs. Manzoni to find out that I was not Catholic. At the beginning of the school year, she called me to the front of the class introducing me to everybody: “Class, this is Lea. She is not baptized and she is going to hell.” Whispers spread across the class. Suddenly I was not viewed as just one of the other kids, but more like a newly discovered alien species.

The news spread quickly to the playground, and I immediately felt like a celebrity; but I was not the "she can jump double-dutch" playground celebrity, I was more "here comes the she-devil" kind. It goes without saying, that being six years old and pointed to as the “spawn of the devil” is no fun; and although I felt that I was like everybody else, I was told that I was different.

I don't remember being teased because of my lost soul, but I do remember being shunned by some of the kids at school. One time I was having an argument with another kid, when we were interrupted by one of her friends who came to her rescue and shut me up by saying, "Don't talk to her, she's not even baptized.” I remember feeling stunned, then livid, my ears red and burning. I watched their group as they walked away, gazing back at me, looking and then whispering and giggling.

Some other kids talked to their parents about my impending damnation; I guess that Mrs. Manzoni had struck a chord with some of my classmates. Some of those kids told me that I was not actually going to hell; rather, I’d be in limbo, where non-baptized, innocent souls spend their eternity. To me, the limbo deal seemed very much like a technicality, and not much of a consolation.

My parents, of course, were doing a 'bang up' job in letting me know that "hell" is merely a form of social control enforced by the church, so I ended up not worrying too much about it.

As every major holiday and religious celebration came and went, I felt deeply alienated from the rest of my community. Although I attended a public school, we went to mass as a class a few times a year. Many of the social and community activities rotated around church; it was the major catalyst. At a certain level not being able to be a part of it, made me almost not be a part of the community at all.

I felt very lonely; I was literally the only one that I knew who was not at least baptized, even within my immediate family. If my parents had belonged to a different denomination, I could have had at least a few people that shared our same beliefs, but being the only one raised Atheist was one of those things that forge one's personality in ways that I am still discovering.

A few times I snuck out behind my father's back (with my mother as an accomplice) and went to the after-church activities with the other kids. I really craved feeling, experiencing and seeing what everybody else was doing on Sunday. I remember hearing all about the after church programs on Monday at school, and to me, watching a movie, buying some candies, hanging out while some of the older kids played foosball, sounded nothing short of fantastic.

One time, I was invited by my friend Bruna to join her and her family after service. I was thrilled; it kept my mind occupied for several days. Finally Sunday came, and everything was just as I expected: religious movie and the opportunity to buy liquorices and marshmallows. After the movie was over, we all exited the small room, which was outfitted with benches and an old projector. To my absolute terror, I spotted a priest who knew of me; I really could not escape his look of disapproval. He looked at me as though I had just stolen something. I felt so humiliated and ashamed.

When it was time for first communion, it was clear that I was the only one in the entire school (read: in the entire country) who was going to skip it. I lived vicariously through the other girls, listening to their descriptions of their white nun-like dresses. Some of them would give me that look of "ugh, what does she want?” if they realized that I was eavesdropping.

Others didn't say anything, I think they felt bad for me and didn't know quite what to say.
I stayed up late thinking about how it would feel to be part of that--to have that dress, to go to the rehearsals-- to feel like I belonged. My best friend mercifully didn't talk about the whole thing, and tried not to make it too much of a big deal.

After First Communion Mrs. Manzoni gave a gift and her teary-eye congratulations to every one in the class.

Except for me, naturally.

By SuzieQ
Seventh Grade

My best friend "Alison" and I had a lot of fun together after school and on weekends. We rode bikes around the neighborhood, went to Thrifty for ice cream and to try on makeup, and talked on the phone for hours. Our birthdays were a day apart, our senses of humor were compatible, and we both loved Judy Blume, prank phone calls, and sleep away camp. But she shared her actual birth date with "Wendi," a girl in the popular crowd.

In seventh grade, Alison and Wendi planned a joint birthday party--a night time party with boys, dancing, and who knows what else. I write "who knows" because I wasn't there. I wasn't invited.

Alison explained that she couldn't invite me because she didn't want Wendi and her crowd to know that we were friends. She said she could only act friendly to me outside of school--otherwise I'd blow her cover. Pretty terrible, no? Unfortunately, my self esteem was, too, because I accepted the terms of her friendship. I just wanted to keep her as a friend. The night of the Alison/Wendi party, I stayed home and cried in my room.

Last time I checked, Alison and Wendi hadn't talked since the 80's. Alison never was fully accepted into Wendi's dominant popular clique, but she found her own group in high school. I had my own group too. We did stay friends, though.

And believe it or not, I am still friendly with Alison. Am I able to maintain the friendliness because I am happy with my spouse, kids, work, and life, and she is single and hates her job? Maybe! Wheel of karma?

My daughter can't believe that someone would do that to me. I am so glad she is indignant about it. I don't think she'd put up with Alison's terms. I am glad she is stronger and has more self esteem than I did!