Frontin'
this isn't the end. /nowhere near. I just haven't had time to finish it.
Ah, another school day. Being in middle school, that meant another day of insults, gossip, pointless work, body odor, and last but not least people crying in the hall between classes.
Another day of over-using a certain finger. Another day of lugging around a heavy backpack that would eventually result in back pains. Another day of fighting back tears and trying to pretend my depression is really anger.
I never understood how kids in middle school could cry with so many people watching. I saved the tears for when I was alone in my bedroom. I wanted people to think I was strong. I didn't want them to know that words could hurt me. I didn't want them to know anything could hurt me. I wanted to be indestructible.
But I wasn't. In fact, every tiny insult cut my soul into shreds, and I just had to bear it and act like it wasn't tearing me to pieces. I would repeat harsh words in my head until I actually started believing them. I would make up my own insults to add to the infinite list.
Lord knows I wanted to cry, but I didn't. Watching people walk by dabbing their runny mascara with tissues, I wanted to grab them by the shoulders and shake some sense into them. I wanted to remind them that no one cares if they're hurt or not. Tell them that if I had to brave the drama, they did to. I wanted to take out all the agonizing, torturous pain that I had ever felt on them.
Remembering how often I had wanted to do exactly what they were doing, I would always let them slide. I knew it was a great possibility that someday I would be in their shoes and if I were, I wouldn't take too well to having salt poured on my open wounds.
As I walked through the ocean of tears, known as our hallway, wishing I had a raincoat, a teacher walked by and mumbled, "Ms. Smith."
He said it the way they say it in fancy movies to mean hey. I made a lackadaisical attempt to smile. What was I supposed to say to that? None of the teachers at my elementary school said that. They just said hi like everyone else. I knew this was the middle school with the highest test scores in our district, but did that mean that all the teachers had to show off their education by talking fancy?
"'Sup?" I replied.
He guffawed like I had just told the most hilarious joke he had ever heard. I continued pushing through the crowd to my next class.
Finally, I got to my pre algebra class. Luckily we were taking notes that day. I got out my math notebook and as everyone else was taking notes, I began writing a rap song. She was just going over how to change a fraction to a percent, which we had already learned. She said we were reviewing because the average test grade over it was a 72% and she believed we could do much better than that but I decided that didn't apply to me since I had gotten an 86%.
Another day of over-using a certain finger. Another day of lugging around a heavy backpack that would eventually result in back pains. Another day of fighting back tears and trying to pretend my depression is really anger.
I never understood how kids in middle school could cry with so many people watching. I saved the tears for when I was alone in my bedroom. I wanted people to think I was strong. I didn't want them to know that words could hurt me. I didn't want them to know anything could hurt me. I wanted to be indestructible.
But I wasn't. In fact, every tiny insult cut my soul into shreds, and I just had to bear it and act like it wasn't tearing me to pieces. I would repeat harsh words in my head until I actually started believing them. I would make up my own insults to add to the infinite list.
Lord knows I wanted to cry, but I didn't. Watching people walk by dabbing their runny mascara with tissues, I wanted to grab them by the shoulders and shake some sense into them. I wanted to remind them that no one cares if they're hurt or not. Tell them that if I had to brave the drama, they did to. I wanted to take out all the agonizing, torturous pain that I had ever felt on them.
Remembering how often I had wanted to do exactly what they were doing, I would always let them slide. I knew it was a great possibility that someday I would be in their shoes and if I were, I wouldn't take too well to having salt poured on my open wounds.
As I walked through the ocean of tears, known as our hallway, wishing I had a raincoat, a teacher walked by and mumbled, "Ms. Smith."
He said it the way they say it in fancy movies to mean hey. I made a lackadaisical attempt to smile. What was I supposed to say to that? None of the teachers at my elementary school said that. They just said hi like everyone else. I knew this was the middle school with the highest test scores in our district, but did that mean that all the teachers had to show off their education by talking fancy?
"'Sup?" I replied.
He guffawed like I had just told the most hilarious joke he had ever heard. I continued pushing through the crowd to my next class.
Finally, I got to my pre algebra class. Luckily we were taking notes that day. I got out my math notebook and as everyone else was taking notes, I began writing a rap song. She was just going over how to change a fraction to a percent, which we had already learned. She said we were reviewing because the average test grade over it was a 72% and she believed we could do much better than that but I decided that didn't apply to me since I had gotten an 86%.
0 Comments
No comments yet!