You've Come a Small-But-Significant Way, Baby

     Lunch is often the busiest period of my school day.  Teachers are famous multi-taskers, and to be honest, I’m not a good one.  (This is why there are always coffee rings, oil blobs, and food stains on my students’ graded work.) Last month, I was trying to facilitate simultaneous lunch meetings - one with my student teacher to unit plan and the other with the school musical’s creative team to put out fires. (With our opening night of You’re a Good Man, Charlie Brown less than 3 weeks away, our Snoopy got kicked out of the production.)  And even though these two meetings were in high gear and there wasn’t enough time for either, when J walked in, everything else went on hold.  

     J is one of the 8th grade teachers.  He’s smart and sarcastic and aloof - all the things that make me want to drop everything and eagerly try to please.  He’s a cool kid. 

     No, he’s the cool kid.

     Now, I admit that I was not born with a photographic memory, and I am not a person who can remember word-for-word the way any scene goes, no matter how important in my life. (Sorry, everyone close to me.)  Forgive me this shortcoming.  Suffice it to say, the gist of our conversation went something like this:

     “So, uh, Douglas, we’ve got the 8th grade trip coming up, but we’re short girls to chaperone. You’re dying to go, right?”

     I hadn’t been referred to as a girl since my 5th grade gym teacher, Mr. Kirk, ribbed my group of friends for buying into that 1970s women’s lip movement, so I easily clipped, “Nope.”

     “Here’s the thing.  It’s always a lot of fun.”

     “Well, what’s the itinerary?  I have no idea how the three days work,” I said.

     “It’s a big camp.  Everyone stays in cabins.  

During the day, the leaders just station ourselves around the camp. If there’s an activity you want to coordinate, you tell the kids, Come over here to play softball, and then they come to you if they want to play.  You get to make the plan and the kids follow.  It’s easy. We have all kinds of sports, camp games, competitions, a talent show... 

No hard feelings if you say no, but we really need another girl and it’s a great time.  I’ve never had a bad time.”

     Hmm.

     “Can I think about it?” I asked.  

     “Sure, but here’s the thing.  I’ve got a meeting with Ailene (Yes, he addressed our principal by her first name - a rarity in our school culture) at 2:00 to give her the names of the chaperones.”  The clock said 12:40.

     “Wow, I can see how hard you thought about this and what a painstaking vetting process it’s been,” I quipped.

     “Look,” J punched, “I don’t like many people, especially for three days in a row.  But you’re actually someone who could spend that time with and not want to blow my brains out.”

     “Awesome!” (I hope I rolled my eyes.)

     “No, seriously.  my wife and I were talking last night about possible girl chaperones and she said, ‘What about Stephanie?’ and we thought you’d be perfect.” 

     My mind raced through all the reasons to go.  I love camping.  I’m good at the outdoors; hell, I’m great at the outdoors.  I’m a little rusty, but it’d be fun to return to it.  Hadn’t I been looking for a way to build/strengthen community at our school?  I’ve been there for almost two years now and don’t really have a group of friends.  I have folks I’m friendly with - I like most of the 80 adults in our school community, and I am sure to smile and chat in the hallway or by the time-clock with those acquaintances - but man, friends would be nice.

The dream state began~

     I could really impress them with my sports skills!  

     I could organize morning runs!

     I could be part of the funniest skit in the talent show that everyone would talk about for years to come!  We could even get t-shirts made up to commemorate the experience by placing an esoteric but hilarious phrase on the back that only we would understand - like a secret handshake.

     I could be the captain of the winning softball team!  We could take down J’s team and he’d pat me on the shoulder and say, “Douglas, you’re all right,” and I’d beam with pride that I’d done it, I’d really broken through.  I’d be in.

     I could, in fact, be a cool kid!  That was the biggest reason to go. It was really the only reason to go.

     And then it hit me.  

     The kids.

      I hadn’t thought at all about the kids once.  In fact, the minute I did, I thought in horror, “Oh God, that’d be excruciating!”  Honestly, have you been around a group of 8th graders?  On their own, they’re lovely, but together, they’re insane. Clinically insane.  I like teaching them but spend 3 hormone-filled days with them?  Gross!

      At that moment, I realized what would happen if I chaperoned the trip. I would be that goodie two-shoes, the straight shooter who ruins all the fun, not just for the kids, but for the adults.  I’d be the one saying, “You guys, we really can’t do that.  What if something happens?  What if it gets back to administration? Someone’s going to get hurt. That’s a bad idea. You brought what?   Bury that.  Absolutely not!  We’ll be on the cover of the New York Post for sure.” Then the adults - the cool kids I’d be trying to impress by going on this trip - would turn on me.  I’d be the focus of their ridicule and their practical jokes.  

      I flashed back to my own 5th grade Girl Scout trip to Philadelphia.  Although not a leader and not my bunkmate, my mom helped to chaperone our group, and because of it, I was  Queen Buzzkill.  In our hotel room that evening, when one of my roommates wanted to jump on the bed or sing or crank call friends’ rooms, I whined, “You guys, we can’t!”  I wagged my finger at them, pleaded with them, appealed to their better judgment.  What a jerk.  Sure enough, after I’d fallen asleep, those girls put pretzels up my nose and laughed together at my humiliation. (Full disclosure: I know I did similar awful things to others, so don’t feel too sorry for me.)  

     Fast forward. I knew that with the invention and proliferation of social media in our lives today,  my cool colleagues would find me in my cabin late one night after I’d fall asleep, and they’d stick pretzels up my nose and record the event for Facebook.  They’d put my hand in warm water and I’d pee myself, and their laughter would be so loud that it’d wake the 8th graders, and then the news would spread like true wildfire.  Oh. My. God.  

     I couldn’t go on this trip.

     It would be my ruin.

     I called J in his classroom at 1:45.  I said I couldn’t do it.  I made up some lame excuse about being devoted to my 6th grade team and that I couldn’t leave them during this crucial period.  

     “So, you’re telling me no?” he spat in disgust.

     “I’m telling you no,” I said.

     With that, the cool kid hung up on me.

     For days afterward, there was still a part of me that thought maybe, just maybe I really could do it.  I could be what J and the cool kids were looking for.

     But that’s never what it’s about.  What was I looking for?

     I just want to be liked.  I really do.  It’s so true.  And sometimes I just cringe when I admit it.  There’s this never-ending inner struggle between being liked and being true.  And honestly, in that situation - in any situation - there’s no guarantee of being liked.  

...

     The trip was two weeks ago.  I asked a colleague about it when he returned, looking worse for wear.  

     “It was awful,” he croaked. He said that there were too many kids and no solid protocol.  It was essentially a three-day free-for-all.  What a disaster that trip was! 

     And while I shook my head in commiseration, I welled up with joy inside.  Because even though I feel like the same young kid who desperately wants to be liked, I’ve managed to make a few better decisions along the way.  I’ll take that small but significant win.  

     No more pretzels for me, thanks.