There was a time when I dreaded going to high school. During the weeks before I started my freshman year, all I could picture were mazes of hallways and classrooms, unfamiliar faces of students and teachers, and upperclassmen who loved to torture frightened freshmen.
Fortunately, my visions were exaggerated. I soon got into the swing of things in high school. I figured out which teachers really did give you detention if you were late to class, which classmates were safe and those I didn't want as my lab partners. I began to find my place in the school, as well as everyone else's place there. By October, I knew who was who and what was what.
In November, everything changed.
I was diagnosed with Hodgkin's lymphoma, a cancer of the lymph nodes. I went through chemotherapy, lost all my hair and missed 40 days of school. Most people didn't know I was sick. My teachers helped me keep up in class, my friends were as supportive as they could be and I wore a wig to hide my bald head.
It was at this point that I dreaded going to school again. I didn't feel like I fit in anymore. I had lost my place, and didn't know how to find it again. Ironically, the one thing about myself that I was most ashamed of helped me to fall back into place. Towards the end of my treatment, in a small burst of bravery, I decided to stop wearing my wig. I declared I didn't care what people thought, that I didn't want to hide anymore. But inside I was very scared. How would people react to a bald girl?
But despite my doubts, one Monday in April I came to school with only a baseball hat covering my baldness. I had never had so many people stare at me before. They tried to hide it. I could tell they didn't want to be rude -- they just couldn't help themselves. I didn't say anything, mostly I just looked at the floor. That's what I did until the end of the day when one girl blurted out what I'm sure everyone else was thinking, but was afraid to say, "So why did you shave your head?" You can imagine my reaction to that one. But, oddly enough, after that one question, things were easier.
Over the next three years, I became a typical high school kid again.
Jeannette’s timid nature is a shared characteristic that we both share. This was evident through her reluctance to take off her dress while she was at the community pool with her classmate, Dinitia and other women. She was self-conscious about her body and the scar that was on her ribs as a result from an accident she had at three years old cooking hot dogs. After a few moments of encouraging herself, she was able to take off her dress and put on a bathing suit. Like Jeannette, I have struggled with shyness when it comes to body image. I started puberty at eight years old, and the children I went to school with, were relentless in teasing me about having to wear a bra. This caused my self-esteem to plummet and lead me to bind my chest with tape
High school is meant to be the time of your life, but for most seniors just like me it can be some of the most emotional and crazy time. The things in my past make me who I am today, and the things I do now are the first footsteps into the future. I’ve learned a lot about myself in these past four years, and I still have so much learning to do. This is my high school story; the good, bad, and the ugly.
Anxiety ran throughout my entire body the morning before my first class of college began. Not knowing what to expect of my professors, classmates, and campus scared me to death. I knew the comparison to senior year of high school and freshman year of college would be minute, but never did it occur to me how much more effort was need in college until that morning, of course. Effort wasn’t just needed inside of the classroom with homework and studying but also outside of it where we are encouraged to join clubs, get involved and find a job. Had I known the transformation would be so great, I’d have mentally prepared myself properly. It’s easy playing “grown-up” in high school when one doesn’t have to pay expensive tuitions, workout a
I pretty much felt like an outcast when I began high school. Most of my classmates still had their friends from middle school, whereas mine went to the neighboring high school. Having social anxiety really didn’t help me either. It was hard for me to make eye contact with others or even bother to introduce myself to new people. In the first few weeks of high school, something had caught my eye. There were flyers advertising auditions for ‘The Little Mermaid’ production. Taking the risk, I decided to audition. Through the auditorium doors there was a grey table with upperclassmen talking to other students. Located on the table were different character scripts and a clipboard for signing in. One of the strangers approached
8th grade, 8th grade from the opening day to the signing of the yearbooks. This is the year of memories, goodbyes, and regrets. 8th grade and I’m still realizing that there are people in the world that would die to go to a school like this. A school where every body knows everyone’s name, respects everyone, and where violence and fighting are about as common as the Yankees missing the playoffs. When I’m done with my homework and go to bed, as the days of 8th grade wind down, summer will come and go, and I will find myself in one of those giant, scary places called high school.
I was never outgoing as a child and always seemed to shy away from change. So, walking into school on that first day back and not recognizing a single soul was the equivalent to me experiencing that dream where you walk into a crowed area and realize you forgot to put your clothes on and everyone is staring. I was a chicken among geese and everyone knew it. I spent my time doing all that I could to fade into the background and hide from the unfamiliar faces. That was until I was unexpectedly pulled from the shadows and shown that starting over was not the end of the
There are countless times that I look into the mirror and wish I could change something about my body. As a feminist I realize what I say can be contradictory to what I feel. Of course I want to love my body and feel beautiful, but unfortunately feeling self love and acceptance is easier said than done. During freshman orientation I was sitting next to a boy waiting to get assigned to a classroom, he commented on my arms laughing at how hairy they were. (Well what can i say, i'm jewish and its genetic). So i'm sitting there thinking, "when I go home i'm going to shave, bleach, or wax my arms." Anything that will get the stupid hairs off of them. 3 years later and I've come to terms with my body hair, and embraced it. I won't get into detail but lets just say i'm not ashamed of having a little bit of arm hair.
I started wearing what I wanted and not just what was popular. I didn’t have close connections with my friends at the time either. Most of them gossiped all the time, and that’s just not me. I had been stuck in my shell for way too long in fears of being an outcast. The first day of trying to come out of my shell I was made fun of, but I didn’t care near as much as I thought I would. These people are making jokes about me but don’t have any clue who I am, what I’ve been through, or what my future holds. So why even give them the time of day? I kept on wearing what I wanted and actually made life-long friends who were into the same things as I was. It does not matter what you wear or how you look honestly. The only thing that should matter is what’s inside of you, and you shouldn’t be discouraged to express that in fears of someone not liking you. “Those who matter don’t mind, those that mind don’t matter” (Theodore Suess Geisel.)
As freshman, we came home from school with the mentality that we were no longer children, but rather had entered into a new stage of life. Everything seemed different and new; we weren’t the big kids on campus anymore. We no longer were the persons being looked up to, but rather were the persons looking up to an entire school of older students. We remember joining our firsts clubs, going to dances, and having Orientation days.
There are currently organizations, such as the National Alopecia Areata Foundation that help educate personnel, on the importance of hair loss and how this can mentally challenge a person’s life who deals with a society that focuses on appearance. We as a society view hair a sign of youth, vitality and fertility in woman. Although this disease does take an emotional toll on many individuals who suffer from the disease, this should not interfere with ones dreams and goals in life. We should view this as another obstacle to overcome and not only help guide our world to a view less focused on our hair and appearance, but as a gateway to perhaps uncovering another medical
For much of my life, my hair and I were diametrically opposed in appearance, personality, and temperament. On my head is a thick mane of jet-black coarse curly hair. Each hair is muscular, with enough heft and hutzpah to hold a 5-pound dumbbell. I, in contrast, am a very petite girl with the arm strength of a gnat. My hair is wild. I am demure. My hair is boisterous, I, except occasionally, am composed. My hair is an extrovert, gaining energy from those around her. I am an introvert, preferring to curl up with a good book.
Okay, now as I think back, I will admit that it being the first day of middle school I should have put a little effort in my appearance but, who did I have to impress? Weren?t we coming here to learn? If I was going to sit in a classroom for 8 hours a day I needed to be comfortable.
Along with the skirt, came the looks. Perhaps I was more sensitive to them because I was new to cross-dressing in public and was watching people for their reactions. Some people looked with disdain, some only with confusion, and some probably thought I was just a fledgling transgender who hadn’t really yet mastered her feminine look. I was expecting these looks. I knew they would come and I wanted them to. I was not trans, just a boy wearing a skirt. I wanted them to see that I exist.
To begin something new, you must sacrifice something old. To enter the real world, you must graduate your childhood.
Having spent twelve years of my school life in just one small red brick building, the years tend to fade into each other. But the year I remember most clearly and significantly is my senior year of high school, where I finally began to appreciate what this institution offered to any student who stopped to look. Before, school had been a chore, many times I simply did not feel motivated toward a subject enough to do the homework well, and seeing the same familiar faces around ever since I was 5 years old grew very tiring soon enough. But I began to see things from a different angle once I became a senior.