I was a dork. Most kids go through their awkward phase sometime in middle school, but my mother caused mine to begin at the age of five. I attended an all girls school until fourth grade where everyday I felt as though I was the butt of every joke, the class dork. The girls marched up the driveway to Katherine Delmar Burkes School in their matching green plaid jumpers, perfectly tailored white collared shirts, ankle socks rolled just below the Achilles, and navy short shorts. I, on the other hand, marched up the driveway everyday with a white turtleneck under my jumper that my mother forced me to wear so I wouldn’t get sick, a braid poking out the top of my head, which my mother, an extremely unaccomplished hairstylist, would style, and Looney Toons boxer shorts that peeked out the bottom of my too-long skirt. I was doomed from the start. The clique of five mean girls, beginning in Kindergarten, would look at me and laugh, never let me join in on foursquare games, and never let me sit near them during free time. I would sit alone in a corner, occasionally with my friend Lauren who was equally excluded, and eat vats of homemade play dough, which probably didn’t help my situation. After months of being on the outside of the popularity circle composed of the so-called “cool six year olds.” One of the girls, Becca, came into class with a raspy voice. She proudly announced to the class that she had a frog in her throat. Thinking that this was finally my moment to jump into the conversation I defiantly asked her “how did it get there?” The five girls burst out into laughter as I sat on a yellow beanbag confused as to why I was being made fun of for asking a simple question. Mr. Bostock, my Kindergarten teacher, my hero, jumped in and defended me announcing to the class that I had asked a perfectly acceptable question.
I Was A Dork.
August 16, 2010