Peer Positioning

One

Kayla’s locker was right next to mine. I am not sure how this happened as alphabetically, Smith surely is not next in line after Boyer. I am elated that Kayla’ is next to me.  Seventh grade at Pleasant Grove Junior High may be a new beginning for me. Within these halls, there are so many kids who have never met me, judged me, and found me inadequate.  I am not valued. Why?  I'm not sure. Kayla is popular, beautiful, and sought after.  She seems genuinely interested in me.  Why?  I watch her from the corner of my eye.  She tries her locker combination twice before I volunteer to help her.  I guess I am useful.  I finish swiveling her combo and pull the latch until it catches, hold it there and give it quick rap. Pop, it opens.

“Thanks, Danny,” she smiles at me.  And I mean smiles.  My stomach drops, my head spins a little and I wonder again… Why?  

For all three months, I have been close with Kayla.  In that time we have become friends to a degree that I have never had before. What kind of friend? She was real, so real. Honest. I trusted myself with her, well mostly.

Candice dropped her pencil. I bent down to retrieve it. We bumped heads, laughed, and looked at each other. I love her eyes. My stomach dropped again. I might just kiss her right now, in the middle of the hall, in between class periods with hoards of kids around us.

“Hey, you prick!  I’m not messing around, fight me!” Jesse or Jordan spit at me. I don’t remember his name. There were so many of them that I stopped keeping track.

I stood up and was shoved hard against Kayla’s locker, slamming it shut. Kayla wisely backed away from us. Let’s call him Jordan. Same build as me, not really formidable, typical 12-year-old kid. He let go and again taunted me.

“Fight me!”

Why? What will it prove? How does it solve anything? Why is everyone crowding around?

“I’m not going to fight you; there is no reason for me to fight you.”

The crowd pushes us closer. We are in a make-shift ring, fellow students acting as the ropes but no one is in my corner. There is no corner, just Jordan, the crowd, and Daniel. Why?

I refute his demand to fight him and try to walk away. That’s what you are supposed to do. Walk away; there is no reason to fight. Just walk away. The crowd wants blood, and I am shoved back into the ring.

“You are such a pussy!”

That stings a bit. I don’t like that word. I think it’s vulgar. But I just can’t bring myself to start swinging. I don’t want to. Why?

I am not sure why. It’s just not right and I want to do what is right. I don’t want to hurt him. I’m not worried about getting hurt. I just can’t fathom hurting him. What if I killed him? What if he was left somehow handicapped from our pointless fight? No, can’t take that chance. I could not live with the accountability for something like that.

“I won’t fight you!”

My spine is on fire. Someone from the crowd has decked me from behind. I guess they are trying to get the fight started. I lose my temper and turn and shove my way through the crowd. I probably hurt some of them and am ashamed immediately because I enjoyed the feeling of pushing my way out of that circle.

I know who had hit me--Bradley Harrison. He is a “friend” of mine. The only kind of friend I have had up to this point other than my cousin, Sam Howard, and Kayla. Why?

First through sixth grade was full of this kind of friend.  Thomas. Drake, Kurt Monson, Kyle Pearson, all included me in their play, but more as entertainment than as a participant. I don’t trust boys. I trust some men. But boys really don’t care about others.

I am not one to manifest sadness. I like being happy. Crying is the anti-happy. But I cry. I feel unwanted. I feel dumb. I am not cool. I once read a book called “The Kid in the Red Jacket” and it made me cry. This kid moved to a new school and no one liked him and he was sad and cried about it. There was a good ending to the story and it touched me so deeply, as deeply as a kid can be touched, and I bawled and bawled. I am the kid in the red jacket. Why?

Two

The hallways are empty now. Only four hours ago I was fighting my way through a crowd of my brainless peers. I won’t do it anymore. I won’t let them hurt me. I will decide if I am dumb or cool, stupid or handsome. I will not give that power to others. I refuse to need to fit in. I won’t open myself to pain anymore. How? My friends will be a convenience, but not a support. I will give support, but I will not seek it. I am my support. I don’t need to be lifted up. I will lift others, but I do not need to be lifted because I will choose where I stand. I have value. I am wanted, well I hope I am.

I am not alone. Juvenile ridicule is a right of passage that many boys and girls go through. I am amazed that positioning is learned at such an early age; that children are able to see value in the belittlement of others. One kid slanders another, often publicly, usually in front of girls, in hopes of looking good, being cool--a real winner.

My developing strategy of removing the emotional capital, value, and power, that previously I had granted others worked for me. The strength and confidence I proclaimed were not to be had overnight. In the halls of Pleasant Grove Junior High, I slowly adapted into a human filter. I determined not to care if others thought me weird. I applied this approach to male “friendships”. Females were safer, at least for me. I felt safe with them probably because I was a good listener. I was a good listener because opinions were not safe. Expressing opinions to others opened me to attention and ridicule. There is safety in silence. But there is also joy in being understood. I was the confidant of many, the counselor of a few, and a friend of two; Sam and Kayla. I lost Kayla in 9^th grade after some “friends” of mine lied to her. I had supposedly said that she had “thunder thighs”. Apparently, the friendship that I thought existed, the trust, and the bond, was not strong enough to withstand the hearsay of Pleasant Grove Jr. High. I engendered friendships with other girls. I love girls.  They seem to give me their trust with ease. I feel wanted.

I am grateful for the callus or filter I have protected myself with. However, I am aware of the male friendships that I have denied the opportunity for growth. I regret this at times—until one of my professional “friends” ridicules me in front of a supervisor. The same positioning tactic that he learned at so young an age is too often found within the social units of our workforce. Why? I am grateful for the crowd that wanted blood. I am successful partly because I faced the ugliness of peer positioning and did not assist in its distribution. It stopped with me. I am grateful. I am who I am with a little help from my “friends”.