And my day only got worse. Once in the office my principal noticed my bangles – all six of them. And she commented on them. Apparently they were “not acceptable” either, at least not six at a time.
I came home feeling miserable.
“I don’t fit in!” I cried to my mother. “This school is not for me! I don’t look like everyone else, I don’t talk like them, and I don’t dress like them. I just am not one of them!”
My mother, who herself is a bit artsy and out of the box, completely understood me.
What frustrated me the most was the size of the box I was expected to fit into. In retrospect, things may not have been as bad, but I was a young and slightly immature ninth grader, and there is no arguing with feelings – and I felt miserable. I felt like all the girls were being shoved into one box. That box was so terribly small, with no wiggle room. I felt like everyone had to be the absolute same.
I didn’t want to go completely crazy. I didn’t want to leave the box for good. Unfortunately, I had watched one of my older sisters go through what I was facing; only she had left the box completely. I didn’t want to do that; all I wanted was a little bit of room, a bit of breathing space, to be myself, which I didn’t feel I had.
There was another challenge I had to contend with: the actual lessons. I came from a home where things were discussed openly. At our Shabbos table everyone is welcome to share his or her opinion and ask questions, without being judged.
I enjoy thinking, understanding, and comprehending. But in school, things were very different. When the teachers asked if anyone had questions, very few hands went up. I often wondered if the invitation to ask was real or if it was merely a formality. In any case, my classmates hardly ever asked. If they did, it was usually a request to repeat something, or the all time favorite question “Do we have to know this for the test?” But no one seemed to have any deep philosophic questions. Aside from me.
So in-between the “Can you repeat that pasuk?” and “Do we have to memorize this for the final?” my hand would shoot up with real questions. Some of my classmates looked at me strangely. Others appreciated the fact that I was “wasting class time.” Some of the other girls actually listened and appreciated the discussions; it seemed as though they were anxious to hear the answers but did not have the guts to ask.
There were teachers who were accepting and patient. They did not look down at me when I questioned the lessons. My favorite teacher, Mrs. Weiss, actually thanked me for my insightful and invigorating questions. She told me that it showed what a bright girl I was, and that by asking, it showed that I understood and internalized the lesson. She made me feel like a million dollars and I looked forward to the days when she taught us. I was careful never to miss any of Mrs. Weiss’s periods.
However, not all of my teachers were as accepting as Mrs. Weiss. Some were impatient, gave me flat and incomplete answers, and then quickly continued with their lessons. Some of the teachers informed me that, “We can discuss these questions during recess.” But I needed my recess to relax! So I never actually had any discussions with them during recess.
