We came to the conclusion that every kid goes through their school years with some sort of common thread relating to their character.
I always got, "Doesn't participate enough in class." During conferences with my teachers, my parents would always hear laments about what a good student I was, but I would never raise my hand.
There was a reason for this, of course. I did not want to be the brainy kid. And yet, in later school years, when boys would deign to write in my yearbook it was always something like, "to the smart, quiet kid in my Spanish class."
I was painfully shy. Excruciatingly shy. (Go ahead and laugh, it's true.) Intermittently throughout my school years, I would come out of my shell, but invariably ducked back in again. So participating in class was something I was desperate to avoid. I'd avert my eyes. Stare at the paper on my desk. Slump down in my seat. Anything to not be noticed and called on.
Mr. Ginley had a mixed social life in school. At one point, his report card called him out as being "a good citizen." But in another year, he was castigated for his shenanigans, and his father penned the response, "This will stop at once." (Knowing his dad, and his belt, it probably did, too.)
I imagine we all had labels. The class clown. The slow kid. The cool kid. The geek. The rebel. The jock. The know-it-all. The snob. The teacher's pet. The weirdo. The show-off. The paste-eater.
Fortunately, most of these labels fall away when we grow up.
How many times have we met someone who was a school mate and been amazed at how unlike their school self they had become?
One of my favorite lines from a movie was spoken by John Candy in Uncle Buck. He fills in for his brother at a conference with his niece's school assistant principal.
In response to her disparaging comments about his niece, he says, "I don't think I want to know a six-year-old who isn't a dreamer or a silly-heart. And I sure don't want to know one who who takes her school career seriously."
Amen, brother.
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