Tangy Tomato #4
It was my first day of fourth grade. I was the “new kid” in school. I was nervous, but as my kind-eyed, homely looking teacher called me “sweetie” and ushered me into the classroom to introduce me to my new classmates, I thought to myself “well, maybe this won’t be so bad.” I had never been at any school for more than two years, and I knew I would spend at least three years at this school, so in a way, I was looking forward to it. As we walked in I noticed that the other kids weren’t dressed like I was. They all wore their J-Crew khaki shorts, white Keds, and Ralph Lauren pastel colored polo shirts—a stark contrast to my black spandex leggings, black boots, and oversized black t-shirt adorned with a gold outline of the Eiffel Tower and “Paris” scrawled across the bottom. But they all smiled sweetly at me, introduced themselves, and made me feel at home. I liked them immediately.
During my first week of school, the pretty, “popular” girls let me sit at their table at lunch. I was the new girl, but I was interesting to them. I was Jewish and none of them were, nor had they heard much about the religion. They asked me questions and let me ramble on and on. I felt like we were becoming friends. I thought I fit in. I was happy.
Little did I know that these sweet, preppy looking fourth graders would make my life as miserable as I had ever known. Over the next three years, they would get boys I had crushes on to ask me out on dates, only to retract their fake offers in front of other classmates so they could all laugh at me. They no longer included me at lunch, and would even exclude me from games like SPUD and Red Rover during recess. No, things were not as they seemed.
The town I lived in had been a restricted community up until just a decade earlier; they didn’t allow Blacks or Jews to live there. Much of the racism and anti-Semitism that had been present long before my family ever moved to town still existed. I came to school one day and found a swastika had been etched on my desk. I didn’t understand. They hated me because of how I was born, something I couldn’t, nor wanted to control. They laughed at me on Wednesday afternoons when I was left alone with the teacher for a couple hours while they all went to CCD (a term that to this day I do not know the definition of, though I believe one of the Cs stands for Christian), I just knew it was something of which I was not a part. I was an “outcast.”
As time went on, I began to relish my “outcast” status. I started wearing black nail polish and stopped brushing my long, brown hair. I refused to look anything like the popular girls with their perfectly combed blonde hair, which they wore pulled back in a perfect ponytail with a white ribbon tied around it. I made friends with other “outcasts” and we made our own fun during birthday parties to which the whole class, aside from us, was invited. After three miserable years at that school, I finally moved away, to a much better place, where I had friends and was finally included. But, I learned from my experience. I learned to be resilient and not to take things at face value. I learned that a smile doesn’t always mean friendship and that the girl standing alone, wearing clothes that aren’t like mine, who is a different religion or race from me, might be someone just like that scared fourth grader wearing all black, wishing for a friend and hoping to be liked.
During my first week of school, the pretty, “popular” girls let me sit at their table at lunch. I was the new girl, but I was interesting to them. I was Jewish and none of them were, nor had they heard much about the religion. They asked me questions and let me ramble on and on. I felt like we were becoming friends. I thought I fit in. I was happy.
Little did I know that these sweet, preppy looking fourth graders would make my life as miserable as I had ever known. Over the next three years, they would get boys I had crushes on to ask me out on dates, only to retract their fake offers in front of other classmates so they could all laugh at me. They no longer included me at lunch, and would even exclude me from games like SPUD and Red Rover during recess. No, things were not as they seemed.
The town I lived in had been a restricted community up until just a decade earlier; they didn’t allow Blacks or Jews to live there. Much of the racism and anti-Semitism that had been present long before my family ever moved to town still existed. I came to school one day and found a swastika had been etched on my desk. I didn’t understand. They hated me because of how I was born, something I couldn’t, nor wanted to control. They laughed at me on Wednesday afternoons when I was left alone with the teacher for a couple hours while they all went to CCD (a term that to this day I do not know the definition of, though I believe one of the Cs stands for Christian), I just knew it was something of which I was not a part. I was an “outcast.”
As time went on, I began to relish my “outcast” status. I started wearing black nail polish and stopped brushing my long, brown hair. I refused to look anything like the popular girls with their perfectly combed blonde hair, which they wore pulled back in a perfect ponytail with a white ribbon tied around it. I made friends with other “outcasts” and we made our own fun during birthday parties to which the whole class, aside from us, was invited. After three miserable years at that school, I finally moved away, to a much better place, where I had friends and was finally included. But, I learned from my experience. I learned to be resilient and not to take things at face value. I learned that a smile doesn’t always mean friendship and that the girl standing alone, wearing clothes that aren’t like mine, who is a different religion or race from me, might be someone just like that scared fourth grader wearing all black, wishing for a friend and hoping to be liked.
posted by Eliza at 9:08 PM
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