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Sixth Grade

Upon reaching sixth grade, I did not feel that I had risen to the infamous "big cheese" status that I had supposedly earned for successfully passing through the curriculum and harassment of the older kids, nor did I foster any ill regard for those who were younger than myself. I was essentially the person who I had always been, with the exception that I was a year older and somewhat wiser through my experiences and observations.

Although I had become slightly more confident, I knew that it did not pay to feel superior, for someone always had the immense enjoyment of smashing the misinformed individual down to size. Whereas superiority was a false assumption, confidence developed upon a somewhat humble realization of one's mastery over life's trials.

Rarely were there situations for which kindness was unfit. It was not my nature nor my ambition to be mean to people who were younger or less fortunate than I; moreover, I remembered the instances wherein I had been subjected to cruelty simply because I was too small to fight back. Never would I forget the nasty sixth grader whose ultimate pleasure came by way of bullying younger students; having a keen sense of hearing and disliking noise of any kind, my entire composure was shattered when he blasted in my ears at the top of his lungs. Completely unnerved, I can recall cupping my hands around my red knit hat and running toward home as the cold wind nipped and stung my tear-filled eyes. Such alarming treatment filled me with terror; I was worried that my fear alone would tempt the bully to commit further torment. The instance also made me despise the boy; his unfair treatment did not serve to heighten his image in my eyes. Abuse did not merit respect; however, it swept the disillusionment from my mind regarding the idolization of an individual for his age or his popularity, for too often an individual was placed on a pedestal, only to evoke disappointment. Smiles and genuine kindness won infinitely more respect.

Few grade school students possessed the maturity to develop and maintain a true friendship. Many were too concerned about pleasing the popular crowd to reserve definite bonds for another individual, because, if the popular crowd was mad at someone, most of the others desired the same opportunity.

I learned about the existence of false friends, individuals who virtually ignored the less popular students until three days prior to a test. This type of person would then take pains to be sweet and gush with special affections, adding to his repertoire a request for one's notes or the answers to certain homework assignments. Disliking a farce, I always refused, whereupon I would be incinerated, reduced to ashes by the fire in the individuals eyes. The flame-thrower did not burn me, however; as he'd never liked me anyway, I suffered no loss.

I discovered, also, the distastefulness of playing the "second fiddle." Having my pride, I did not accept after-thought invitations unless I felt that my time would be enjoyably spent. One girl who was particularly noted for her "use" of others would often call as a last resort; a mannerless individual, she made the mistake of rambling off the names of her refusals when asking another person to accompany her on an outing. A classic phone call ran as follows: "Laurie? This is L. I was wondering if you could go to the fireworks tonight … I already called D, J, L., etc., but none of them could go … aw, come on! … " Sometimes it was fun to say "no." Moreover, I had better things to do.

When not haunted by the need to achieve popularity among peers, many problems disappear or simply fail to exist. Friendships are realistic interactions of individuals rather than acts performed to satisfy the specific requirements of a group. Because it was more important to be myself and follow my own beliefs, "peer pressure" had no affect on me. If I was to be ostracized for refusing to go along with another's idea, no friendship existed and I could easily walk away. Aloneness, for me, was no problem; compromising my standards, however, was a problem.

Generally, I never experienced pressure from a group or an individual to do something about which I had already expressed a negative opinion. Perhaps the knowledge that further prompting would have no effect on my stance impeded harassment of any kind. I was free, imprisoned by no ideas but my own; I bothered no one, and received the same respectful treatment.

I recall a day in which three classmates and I were shopping at a drug store when one suddenly decided to buy a pack of cigarettes, giving the cashier an assuring, "They are for my Dad," in response to the skeptical appraisal of my friend's age. Wordlessly, the woman accepted the money and bagged the cigarettes. My friend smiled heroically as the four of us ushered from the store. After obtaining a book of matches, we strode down to the woods behind my house and followed the trails until we were deeply beneath the cover of the leaves and beyond all source of detection. The pack was opened with the gleeful anticipation which only came with the breaking of a rule. Two girls eagerly lit up and puffed smoke into the clear air. The pack was presented to me. "No thanks," I shook my head. I had no desire to start a habit which not only was a risky endeavor in terms of maintaining health, but also reeked in an offensive manner. "Besides," I thought, "it doesn't even look cool." I envisioned a woman with a white stick drooping out of the corner of her mouth and an old man sucking pathetically on the smoking stub of his cigarette. "You sure?" someone asked, offering the pack again. "No thanks," I replied and started walking toward home. One of the girls joined me, and, as if we had been unexplainably spooked, ran back through the woods to my yard. Out of breath, but glad to be rid of the odor of the cigarettes, we stood silently below the house and waited for the other girls. Upon reaching the top of the hill, the two asked why we ran. Bending the truth, my friend said, "We thought we heard someone yelling for us … " Personally, I don't know why I ran. My refusal and dismissal of the scene had been sufficient, for I had felt no antagonism from my companions; yet, beneath the canopy of leaves, I felt trapped and scrutinized by unseen eyes. Flight seemed to be the natural course of action. If my tactics failed and I was repeatedly urged to do something that I had no intention of doing, I too, would use "Mom" as the rejoiner to a simple "no." Mom never worried about having a "mean old lady" reputation among her children's friends, especially if it saved them from performing undesirable actions. Packing an excuse like "Mom" was ammunition so powerful that I never felt alone when faced with a difficult situation; if I could not handle it, "we" could!

By sixth grade I had accepted the fact that, as one of the tallest students, I would always be seated at the back of the class and stand at the end of the gym line. Each year, I remember wishing that the lines and rows would, for once, be arranged alphabetically, allowing me a change of scenery from the backs of people's heads. I never had the chance. The policy remained the same and the students grew in height … but so did I.

My last year of grade school was also a year through which I spent pleasant noon hours, lunching at the home of a lady whose family attended our church. I shared lunch with Vera's youngest son, Todd, and two other boys whose names no longer exist in my memory. Vera was great. She rarely smiled, yet she had a terrific sense of humor which fell somewhere between "dry" and "sarcastic." Her laughter was a reward in itself, for it was easy and genuine. Within her sober face was more humor than most people could fathom because she had the ability to see humor in life.

Sixth grade left in me a good impression of my early school years … I remembered the good and the bad, for the two elements were inseparable. I thought of the holidays, from Halloween's dress-up parade followed by a night of trick-or-treating, to Valentine's Day parties, and Yuletide paper chains. I reflected upon the fall carnivals and ice cream socials, the frantic chaos of recess and the joy of art projects. I smiled at the science jingle which, through the attacks of several boys and myself, suffered a comical change of wording to "The sun is a mass of undigested GAS, a gigantic nuclear TOILET … " and perhaps as a sort of revenge for so dissecting the lyrics of the educational song, I encountered my first migraine headache in science class, during the middle of a test.

I thought of the teachers, and the quiet spoken janitor, Mr. Ed, who faithfully polished the halls to a sheen and silently cleaned the floor after someone threw up.

I considered the principal who was feared, yet respected, for his ability to control the school in an orderly fashion. He had the type of stern glance which turned one's lunch into a mass of lead; a rumor that he possessed a spanking machine in his office persisted in my mind until the second grade. I never sought to disturb him; thus, when I was instructed to report to his office, my throat became the victim of muscular strangulation. Once stationed before his desk, the principal reprimanded me concerning a book which had disappeared from my desk. The librarian said it was still missing; if it was not returned I would be obliged to pay for it.

I could barely speak. I had borrowed the book from the library, yet someone else had stolen it from my desk; it was not at home, nor was it in any other desk. In vain, I questioned the boy who sat at my desk throughout English class, a renowned trouble-maker, who admitted that he had, without permission, opened my desk and "looked at the book." This was of no consequence to the principal, however, and since it was never recovered, he made me pay the entire cost of the book. I had suffered an injustice, blamed and punished for that which I had not done. I reflected grievously over the situation, and remembered the only time in my life that I had contemplated stealing. I was in an old drug store, gazing at the jewelry spread upon the counter top and spilling from bins of miscellaneous content, when I spotted a tiny cross which had fallen from it's chain. It belonged to nothing, and would one day be discarded among an array of damaged goods. No price tag fluttered on the tiny shape; and it was the only one of its kind. I picked it up and placed it in the palm of my hand; the small cross would not be missed. I stared long and hard at the bright gold trinket, feeling as if I was in a vacuum. I heard nothing but the chaotic ramblings within my mind, the rationalizing manipulation versus the over-powering guilt which lashed viciously at my temptation to steal. I felt suddenly as if my thoughts were naked and replaced the cross in the bin of jewelry. As I walked from the store, I saw the irony in my stormy, inner confrontation; I was going to steal a cross, the sign of goodness, purity, and love. My internal suffering was terrific, although I resisted the compulsion; the thought would never be purged from my memory, for with it, I learned a great lesson.

I slipped back to reality. Great lessons did not shield an individual from shouldering blame that belonged to someone else. Goodness was not always rewarded in life, for despite a personal history of moral decisions and ethical choices, an individual must exist among people who, through their hurtful life styles, obliterate the rights of everyone they touch.

I paid for the book, having nothing to show for my expenditure but a hoard of futile self-pity and the knowledge that I was innocent of any wrong-doing. School came to a close as the summer ripened into its classic heat at noonday. Desks were emptied and scrubbed. Homework ceased. Anticipation flooded the classrooms. The students bid their teachers good-bye, vowing to visit in the future.

Some returned, but I never did. The present traversed the old hallways, while the past would never live again except within my mind. I had no place there among the youthful faces and shrill voices; the building belonged to the present … it belonged to them.

The Mountains

When I dream I think of them,

Majestic peak and Aspen hem;

And in climbing them,

The flowing slopes,

It brings to me

A world filled with hopes.

The rain and thunderheads up there,

With lightning they come, fast as a mare.

I love to watch all the life that they keep,

The wolf, the fox, the hawk, and wild sheep.

Filling it's crannies, streams can be found,

In their tossing and turning, they're thrown to the ground.

So please, oh, please, come and see

This mountain paradise along with me.

Lauren Isaacson - 7th Grade - 1975