Category: Childhood

In elementary school, being the center of attention made me uncomfortable. Once, after years of having the same hair, I cut it short.

My classmates often called me shy.

Yes, I was shy… some of the time. But there was more to my personality. Outside of school, in the comfort of home, I held court like a queen.

The trick is to make your mother feel like getting you the cookie is her idea.

I felt comfortable seeking attention from my family. But the idea of getting too much attention from a classmate, friend, or stranger terrified me. Being in the spotlight and showcasing my personality seemed like a fast-track to rejection.

I knew I had a lot to give. I had a lot to say. But I didn’t always know how to give it or say it.

In seventh grade, I switched from elementary to middle school. I felt excited about the change. I wanted to be braver about opening up to people.

With my mom’s advice, I made a new friend named Summer.

Most of my elementary school classmates attended my new school. I worried they’d be confused or wouldn’t want to see a more outgoing side of me.

I reverted to my old ways around them.

Luckily, I had a good thing going with Summer.

Summer and I shared everything—including an obsession with rap and hip-hop music. We passed notes in class, a key to best friendships.

We weren’t stoners. But we did get detention.

I loved passing notes, talking to, and playing with Summer. I loved quoting Afroman with her. It felt insanely awesome to be myself with a friend.

Halfway through the year, our school hosted a carnival.

Summer suggested we work the cotton candy booth. With encouragement, I agreed.

We listened to Afroman the entire day.

Throughout the carnival, a boy kept walking by our booth. He tossed a squeezy ball up and down.

Sitting beside Summer, high on sugar and Afroman, I made a power play.

The boy threw me the ball. He said, “Keep it!” and seemed pleased by our interaction.

The next week at school, I put the ball in my locker. It represented something big to me:

It feels nice to be noticed. It feels nice to ask for what you want.

As the squeezy ball watched over me, another announcement came over the loudspeaker.

A school fundraiser, the Gopher Auction took place every year in the auditorium. In a live auction, students who volunteered to be “gophers” would be paraded on stage and purchased by other students. Being a gopher required you to do the buyer’s bidding the following day.

Later that day, I found a note in my locker.

I agonized over the gopher decision. A person brave enough to be a gopher was exactly who I wanted to be. Being a gopher, I’d solidify to myself and TO THE WORLD: I want to be noticed. I can change. I’m not shy.

I pinky-promised Summer I’d sign up during lunch.

As Summer and I parted ways for our respective classrooms, I felt brave.

I thought, all throughout my next class, how good it would feel to show more of myself to my peers; to be noticed in a way I chose.

But when lunchtime came, I just stared at the sign-up sheet—seeing only names of people braver than me.

I ran out of the cafeteria, acting more like the gopher who hides in the dirt than the gopher who bursts from the hole.

I ate my lunch on the toilet.

Thoroughly let down by my realization—by my crushing inability to evolve—I wrote to Summer. I gave her the note in our next class together.

I watched Summer read my note.

She looked thoughtful, then smiled as she scribbled a reply. She looked up and saw me. I quickly looked away—embarrassed that she caught me watching.

After a moment, I felt Summer tap me on the shoulder. I put my hand out behind my back and she pressed her reply into my palm.

I checked to make sure our teacher wasn’t looking. Then I opened the note.

Summer noticed me. Always.

I never became a gopher. But that year, I flourished in the safety of my friend’s orbit.

Growing up, there were two types of dolls—American Girls and Barbies.

The American Girls resembled real girls. They looked my age and had accessories, like eyeglasses and four-poster beds.

They were boring.

This is where Barbie came in.

With Barbie’s heaving breasts, high heels, and made-up face, she was DTF. 

Barbie changed the way I played with dolls. I could switch from tea with the American Girls to a Barbie and Ken bang session—all in one afternoon.

Discretion was key.

I could have played Barbies in private to avoid the charade, but I preferred to play in the living room. In our family of six, the living room had all the action. I wasn’t about to miss out for the sake of decorum.

Plus “boundaries” aren’t really my thing.

The coast was NOT clear.

My siblings, who are normal, sometimes opted to play alone in their rooms.

I didn’t understand it.

Melissa was especially good at locking out family—me in particular.

I hated being left out and desperately wanted to know what Melissa was doing in there.

One day, I hatched a brilliant plan.

I artfully dramatized my departure.

My mother took forever to get the hint.

Despite my mother’s meddling, the plan remained on track.

I began to sprint.

At top speed, I launched my 60-pound self against the door.

Shoulder bruised, but high on adrenaline, I scanned my surroundings.

My eyes locked with Melissa’s, a look of horror etched on her face.

In front of her was Ken, lying naked on top of Barbie in the four-poster bed. An American Girl doll lay by the wayside.

As quickly as I arrived, Melissa threw me out, slamming the door behind me.

We spent the reminder of our childhood pretending The Incident never happened.

I never looked at that boring four-poster bed the same.