The Silent Treatment

Lately, I’m always the one. The one who everyone glimpses at during the awkward silence, my peers speculating if I inhabit the will to fill the void with an intelligent discovery of Myrtle’s disposition. I remain the one who feels Ms. Serensky’s eyes glaring at my downturned head, unable to look up because I consciously feel the “Come on Becky, TALK!!” expression that shoots from her eyeballs. The cause might lay in the fact that my parents just paid my enrollment and housing deposit at The University of Alabama. The cause also might lay in the senioritis that runs through my veins, which were apparent my sophomore year of high school. Or finally, the cause might remain that I just don’t have anything to say. I will fully admit that I remain intimidated during the intellectual discussions that take place on a day to day basis. I know for a fact that I do not obtain a membership to the “smart group,” my own personal classification of who could easily write for The New York Times or become a prestigious doctor at The Cleveland Clinic. Don’t get me wrong, I do not think I view myself as stupid. But, I take Advanced Placement English to challenge myself. I know that I do not exist as the Ivy League type, but I like to surround myself with people who live as that type. But throughout class, I endure listening to my classmates discuss the points that I wanted to discuss. Not only do I endure just them taking my points, but they find a particular underlying meaning of the simple anecdote. But that’s not all! They also say it in a way, using literary devices and advanced vocabulary that leaves me speechless. Literally. But wait, it gets better. Other people find themselves in this same predicament. Their point already made, and they need to say something so a check can reside next to their name. So, they repeat the same exact point with the same exact quotes, and twist the wording up. Yay, overkill! And now, I remain completely speechless. I know I need to find an answer to this problem, for my grade will most likely suffer due to my silence during discussion. But sometimes, I just don’t have anything to say.

The World Outside "The Bubble"

Oh, the woes of arriving to a brand new school. Imagine, arriving to a school where everyone knows each other. LIFERS!! This term not only makes me nauseous, but makes me weirdly thankful. When I lived in Charlotte, North Carolina, I attended an extremely diverse elementary school and middle school.   A lovely mixture of African Americans, Indians, Asians, and Hispanics. I grew up around all different types of people, forcing me to accept and love any type of person, no matter their race. Imagine the culture shock I endured when I moved into the bubble! I lived as one confused thirteen year old. Consequently, as I read Roddy Doyle’s New Boy, a surge of memories swarmed my brain. I felt the same confusion and anxiety that young Joseph experienced. It happens to every new kid. The uncomfortable out-of-place sentiment. At the time of the move, I full heartedly believed that my life ended. I believed that I could not survive. Forced to leave my best friends behind and discover new friends. Forced to live in a sea of white. To my surprise, however, when I visited my friends in Charlotte this past weekend, I underwent an astonishing revelation. I missed the bubble. I missed the small town. I did not even know what to think! And get this…I discovered, when I made it back to Chagrin, that I missed Charlotte! So I guess the cliché phrase remains true. You always want what you cannot have. But no matter who I miss, and who I don’t, I am tremendously thankful for my past. It taught me more than I imagined. The difference between big city and small town and the difference between diversity and uniformity. I believe that moving at such a key time in my life really will positively impact me in the long run. I lived in both worlds, and I know what the world outside of the Chagrin bubble looks like. Hip hip hooray for non-lifers!