Can I Sit With You?

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.

Do have a seat. We need to tell you why we're so pleased with ourselves and with you, so stop fiddling around this instant and give us your full attention.

We met our goal. We published a schoolyard story every single day during October. Our book will be ready to go in less than two weeks. And this is all thanks to you: our esteemed readers and writers, our survivors and encounterers of schoolyard confusion.

If you consider that only six weeks ago Shan fell off the coffee wagon and called up Jen, blathering on with caffeine-induced, hallucinatory intensity about her newest idea: a project called Can I Sit With You? that could both share schoolyard stories to help some of our kids and raise money for our special ed PTA to help our other kids oh please pretty please? then our success is even more remarkable. (As is the fact that Jen agreed to do it, given her talent, schedule, and how much her skills are worth in the open market.)

In general: yay!

We're going to be in book production mode for the next ten days, and so will only publish two or three stories during that time. In the interim, here are some of our most popular stories, just in case you missed them:

The Real Meaning of Might by Amanda Jones
Love Hurts by Sarah Glover
The Sound of Musicals by Michael Procopio

The book will be here before you know it. There will be more trumpeting at that point, in addition to reminders that it will be the perfect holiday gift for every person you've ever known. Please stay tuned, spread the word, and comment. We'll always save a seat for you.

by Els Kushner
Age 13 at the time

In 7th grade, I got a crush on my French teacher. A huge, yearning, painful crush. On my female French teacher. It hit me like a truck, and it was terrifying. Particularly so because I read a lot and knew exactly what it was called if these sorts of feelings for people of the same gender continued; I had it on good authority that they could be Just a Phase, and I hoped fervently that they were.

See, all those advice books for adolescents -- the ones with questions supposedly from Real Teens about things like menstruation and pubic hair -- always included a question from some poor soul along the lines of "I think I have a crush on my best friend, s/he's a girl/boy and so am I, does this mean I'm gay?" To which the answer was always something like, "Now, there's absolutely nothing wrong with being gay. But don't worry [emphases mine] about your crush on your friend; it's perfectly normal for heterosexual teens to have feelings like this..." and blah blah blah. It was supposed to be reassuring but was actually confusing: if there was nothing wrong with being gay, what was there to worry about, with the crushes on friends? Why the need for reassurance? Anyone would smell a rat.

In 8th grade, I tried to put the whole emotional mess behind me and concerned myself with the standard teenage-girl nerd things: reading the Foundation trilogy, writing in my Notebook, and trying not to get beat up by mean kids.

The mean kids were really, really mean. Especially Noelle Johnson, who was constantly threatening to beat me up because I was so bad at volleyball. Noelle was one of those girls who were mysteriously allowed to spend every gym class sitting on the bleachers, gossiping and making obnoxious comments. (And you have to wonder: why did she care about me? I wasn't even on her team!)

One day Noelle ventured down from the bleachers again. I figured she was going to give me yet another hard time about how my inability to spike the ball was going to lead to my imminent demise at her hands. Instead, she stared at me, hard, and demanded accusingly, "Are you a lesbian?"

My jaw dropped. My first impulse -- honestly, I was this nerdy -- was to say something like, "How am I supposed to know if I'm a lesbian? I'm only thirteen! No one can know if they're a lesbian when they're thirteen! All the books say so! I'm waiting to see. Ask me again in a few years." But even I knew that that would've been a Big Mistake. Though, in retrospect, maybe not worse than what I did say, which was (after a few seconds during which all the above thoughts flashed through my mind) a bare and unconvincing "No!"

As it was, she stared at me for a couple more seconds, while all her friends went "ooooooh!" with that rising inflection indicating a fight's about to start. But nothing happened. She made a few more remarks about how dumb I was and went back to the bleachers.

I went back to the volleyball game, shaken. How had she known to ask? How??

Now I think that she probably just randomly picked the most damning accusation she could come up with. But at the time it was so scary and creepy, like she could see inside my thoughts. If she could do that when I wasn’t even sure how I felt, what would happen if I decided that I really was gay? It was too terrible to contemplate, so I put it all firmly out of my mind.

Or rather, I did the best I could. A year or two later, in unrequited love with my best friend and trying to decide what “counted” as being in love, I remember writing something like this in my notebook:

"Am I gay? I know I'm in love with Z. But does that mean I'm a lesbian? I'm really too young to decide something like that! When I'm maybe 20, if I still feel like this about girls, then I'll decide I really am. But I can't know now."

And that’s more or less what I did: I waited until college, when nobody I knew was threatening to beat anyone up, and it didn’t matter how good anyone was at volleyball, and I didn’t feel like my whole world would come tumbling down with one simple “yes.”

In the decades since then, most people in my life -- my friends and family and even the people I work with -- have been just fine with who I am and who I love. Even my daughter says that no one at school gives her a hard time about having two moms. I know it’s not like that for everyone, and I feel really lucky.

At times I wish I’d had the courage to come out sooner, at least to myself. Sometimes, now, I wish that when Noelle Johnson asked me that question, I'd said "Yes!," swept her into my arms, and given her a big smooch in front of the whole gym class. It would have made for a much better story, even though I probably would've gotten suspended and beaten up.

And at other times I think I was right and smart to wait until it felt safe for me. Life isn’t just a story when you’re living it, after all. It’s easy for me now, safe in my grownup life, to wonder whether it’s worse to get hurt, or worse to live scared that you might get hurt. Some kids who come out as teenagers did and do get hurt, in real and lasting ways, and I escaped most of that.

But you know what's weird? No one ever did actually beat me up, even though they spent much of 8th grade threatening to. I didn’t even exactly know what “beaten up” meant, even though I spent most of 8th grade being afraid of it.

I do wish I’d been able, somehow, to not be so scared of something that hadn’t even happened to me. And to let myself decide for myself what I felt, and what it meant, and what counted as real.

by Cindy M. Emch
Age 10 at the time

In fifth grade I started public school. My mom was a public school teacher in our small farm town. I marched with her on the picket line when I was in second grade. We didn't tell the other marchers that I was enrolled in the teeny tiny Catholic School in town. I was precocious to put it kindly. I was super-geeky and couldn't get my head out of novels heavier than I was -- that's another way to put it. After watching my brother bored, antsy, and getting into trouble in our local public school, my mom decided to give our people, the Catholics, a shot.

I got a good education in books at Catholic school, but not in socializing. It was one of those places where when I arrived somehow everyone was paired off. I paired off with a book and played with my friends after school, fascinated by their stories of what sounded like paradise: The Public School.

After four grades of begging and pleading, my parents gave in for fifth grade. I got to go school shopping for clothes that weren't uniforms, and started Latson Road Elementary in Mr. Greate's Fifth Grade Class. I felt so fancy and East Coast in my orange sweaters and brown jeans. I was a tiny fashionista after following my neighbors' clothes for all those years. I was beside myself with excitement. The only trouble was that I was entering a complicated social structure with no handbook, and all of my public school pals were a couple of years older and so were already moved on to Middle School.

I found some girls that were pretty friendly and nice enough that by 9 AM on the first day of school, we were the Three Musketeers. Total Best Friends. I was always a sucker for charming girls who could hold a conversation. I have always trusted easily. What I didn't yet know was that I was about to get a first hand education about "Best Friends."

When lunch came we ran around the yard, climbing and swinging and testing our daring by hanging upside down on the swings as we pushed each other higher and higher. Caroline said she'd be right back and skipped out of sight. Daphne and I didn't stop our dangerous swinging contest. We tried to see if we could twist the chains of our swings together to make the plastic and metal spin really fast and still flip upside down. It wasn't really working since we couldn't stop laughing long enough to wrap our legs around the chains once the swings separated.

Caroline ran back out of breath and upset. "THAT BOY! THAT BOY! THAT BOY IS MEAN! HE JUST PUSHED ME!"

My breath stopped. Someone was being mean to my New Best Friend. This wasn't OK. This was what I heard about at home, when people talked about how men hurt women. This was sexism in action! This was like those men that were rude to my mom sometimes and talked to her like she was dumb! This was Injustice! This was someone being a Bully to my New Best Friend!

"Which one?" I asked her. I felt like my whole destiny rode on this. No one would pick on my New Best Friend. I liked to play football. My brother was a state champion wrestler. My mom was a gym teacher. No one would challenge or hurt someone under My Protection.

"Over there in the middle of the tire ring," she said. She looked upset and yet strangely proud. "What are you going to do?" she asked me.

"Tell him that it's wrong to bully!" I said, and stomped away. I was full of a ten-year-old's righteous anger. I was going to Fight A Bully. I was going to Protect a Friend.

"Hey!" I yelled at this small fourth grader with sandy brown hair. "Hi!" he said, smiling and waving at me. "You shouldn't push girls" I said, grabbing his hand. "It's not right!" I said, louder and full of bluster. I pulled and swung on his arm, tossing him around in a curve. "Hey Stop It! What are you doing? I didn't. I didn't push anyone!" he said.

He sounded so confused. I pulled him up and closer to me. "Don't LIE to me. You pushed my friend. You're a bully!" I yelled. I started to slap him on the arms and back. Whereever my hands could reach, I was smacking him. He smacked back and tried to push me down. "You're MEAN!" I shouted, palms still flying. He was crying and I was too mad to think. My head was fuzzy with anger, and cloudy with wondering how this had gotten out of control. I didn't want to be hurting this kid. And why did he look familiar? There were about twenty kids gathered around at this point as we pushed each other, him falling down and getting back up. Both of us holding our ground.

"Stop it you kids! And on the first day of school!" Mrs. Elliot barked as she pulled us apart. There wasn't enough bad in either of us to fight a teacher.

A few minutes later we were sitting outside of Principal Park's office. "Why did you start picking on me?" Jason asked me. I recognized him now that I wasn't Caroline's avenging angel. He was the kid brother of my brother's best friend. We had run farm fields together. Gotten in hay bale fights and fed pigs together, laughing at their eagerness. He always let me brush the black horse because he knew it was my favorite chore. I felt so dumb. So shamed.

"You pushed Caroline. The girl with the pink headband. You hurt her. I thought you were being a bully." I told him.

"But I didn't -- she came over and kicked my ball away. I just chased after it."

I was so confused. The fight was over. I could tell he wasn't lying. Had I been completely duped by my new best friend? Had she just lied to see what would happen?

Principal Park called us in. He knew both of our families. I had known him as Greg ever since I could talk. He was always hanging out with my folks and saying hi when we were in town. "Cindy, you just started school here. I know you weren't a problem at St. Joseph's. Why did you beat up Jason?"

My superhero ego deflated. I couldn't explain to him how I was fighting for the good of the downtrodden, standing up to the bully hierarchy of the schoolyard, defending the rights of all poor little girls everywhere who got hurt, trying to prove that girls weren't weak and made to be pushed around. It all rang so false now. I had been played. Manipulated. Tested. I was duped into self righteous superhero for the amusement of a charming liar with a pink ribbon. "I thought he had bullied my friend. I was wrong. I am sorry."

Principal Park asked me about the bullying and I told him what Caroline had told me. Knowing it wasn't true, and saying that I knew now Jason hadn't done it. He still lectured Jason about bullying. He lectured us both about fighting. I defended Jason. Jason defended me. If I hadn't been crying so hard it wouldn've been really funny. He called our parents, who were as confused as we were at that point as to why two friends who played so well out of school had just gotten in a legendary fight in the schoolyard.

When I walked back into class and took my seat in between Daphne and Caroline, I looked at Caroline accusingly. "Wow, I didn't think you'd start a fight. Why'd you do that?" she whispered. Her eyes sparked at me, daring me to get upset. To call her on it in the middle of class and interrupt Mr. Greate and just get in more trouble. I swallowed something bitter. "I thought he was a bully." My words sat there on the desk. I looked to the front of the room to hear the teacher. It was going to be a very different sort of school year.

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 Linda Saslow
Junior High

In elementary school and Junior High School, I was never a popular child. I was the smart kid. I was the wise cracker in MGM who everyone resented because academics came easily to me. Perhaps I raised my hand too much. Knowing too many answers was never a character trait that the other children liked. Plus, I was horrible at sports.

In sixth grade –- the year was about 1980 as I recall -- I wrote an essay about how I wanted to be the first woman president. This is a reality that seems I will not achieve now that it is 2007, I am 37 and there is a viable female candidate for the top office of the land. The essay was printed in the school yearbook. I got some sort of prize at an assembly. My parents and teachers liked the essay, my peers did not.

In seventh grade, I decided to take the bull by the horns and run for student council. I wanted to be vice president. My father thought this was a grand idea. The problem was that I was not one of the popular children. My mother bought me gingham dresses and I willingly wore them to school. I was still smart, but my friends were few. I was in no way cool. I didn’t have the right clothes and I did not listen to the right music. My hair was hopeless. My mother would only take me to her friend for cuts and she would never do the short fashionable styles I desired.

My father helped me make posters to hang at Goddard Junior High School in Glendora, California. The signs were cute with hand-drawn cartoon characters. I wrote some sort of speech and was incredibly nervous when I had to deliver it to the entire student body at a podium in the gym.

I did not win.

I was bummed about my defeat for a while, but then I realized I was still one of the smart kids, even if I could not win a popularity contest. There were places for me to fit in.

In eighth grade I became the editor of the Junior High newspaper which was still run off on an archaic mimeograph machine. Even a photocopier was too high tech for the newspaper office in 1982. I was a good writer before becoming editor of the paper, but I really started to shine once I had acknowledgement for my work. And, I had a staff and some of the kids were popular and they had to kiss up to me to get their stories printed. This I liked. I had the power that I craved. But I had been appointed by teachers, not put up to a popular vote.

For my 13th birthday my mother let me have a large party in the back yard. It was a co-party with a friend who was a bit more popular, so I had hopes that some of the cool kids would come. My friend’s mom made a cake and my mother bought one of those really long sub sandwiches.

Everyone came. I was amazed. I was suddenly not a pariah. Eighth grade proved to be much better socially for me. I had lunch friends. I was on an AYSO soccer team. I discarded the gingham dresses for jeans and corduroy pants. My mother finally relented to let me pick out my own clothes. I got my ears pierced.

The final insult cam at the end of eighth grade when I decided to try out for cheerleader. I was nervous during the audition and I was not picked to be a freshman cheerleader. It seemed that true popularity would always elude me.

At the end of my thirteenth year I moved to another city. The new city was hours away. I had to find my way in a whole new social environment. I was never especially popular in high school, but I managed to make newspaper editor again and had a small circle of genuine friends.

Having just watched my oldest child wade through Junior High, I became acutely aware again how twelve- and thirteen-year-olds are especially cruel. The competition to be thin, have good hair, and trendy clothes has not changed a bit. I doubt it ever will.

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!

By brokenbuddha
Age 12 at the time

In the middle of my fourth grade year my family moved to small town Idaho. I got made fun of from the very first day. Naturally, I made friends with the only person geekier than I was. I tentatively sought approval from my peers--got rejected, of course. I was the new kid. This didn't truly bother me until sixth grade.

At the beginning of the year I had one friend - the only friend I'd had for the past two years. Jon M. He had a horrible temper with everyone but me. His family was poor and couldn't afford things like toothpaste, so his teeth were awful. He was the shortest kid in class. He was so very smart, and a naturally talented flute player. He taught me how to play checkers, and how to pump your legs hard enough on the swings to achieve Warp Speed 9.

Sixth grade was the year I lost him.

For some reason, the girls in the class took pity on me. They tried to make me over, make me "cool" just like them. I could hardly believe it. I was finally being accepted! The only problem was, they told me I couldn't hang out with Jon anymore. In fact, I had to make fun of him just like they did or else I wouldn't be a part of the group.

Peer pressure is one of the most horrible things on the planet. I caved in. I became one of the bullies. I made fun of Jon. I still remember the look on his face when I did it. It killed me. I couldn't believe I'd done that to my one true friend.

The next year, when we started seventh grade, I wanted to apologize to him. My eyes constantly roamed the halls, looking for my friend, but I never saw him again. His sister told me he was being home schooled because he "didn't have any friends at school anymore."

I will never forget my friend Jon, and how I lost him. I work every day to be kind to people in the hopes that someday I will be able to forgive myself.