Middle school, almost by definition, is not supposed to be a place where anyone thrives. It’s awkward, confusing, and the boys there grossly overestimate the appropriate quantity of Axe Body Spray to use. It’s a three year waiting game, caught between the joy and innocence of elementary school and the excitement and freedom of high school—like idling at a traffic light that never seems to turn green. With the benefit of nearly seven years removed, however, I’m finally beginning to appreciate those three fleeting years. More specifically, the people who shaped that time and made it worthwhile.
Dear Middle School Band Director,
I have a confession. I quit marching band.
I know, I’m disappointed in myself too. First year of college, and I didn’t so much as touch my instrument. I watched my sister march onto the field at every home game, and felt a phantom weight in my arms. It was always waiting for me though, tucked away under my bed.
I remember being in 7th grade and finding out that my sister had made the All-District band, and that I had not. And it wasn’t just that I hadn’t made it, but that I had truly bombed that audition. My score was pitifully, embarrassingly low, especially considering the number of hours I put into practicing each night. And since it was my sister who made the honor band, I still had to attend. I sat in the audience and could actually feel my soul shrivel up and die a little bit inside my body. Every piece played felt like a punch to the gut. I wasn’t good enough. I wanted to quit.
Going back to the pep band felt like coming home. You showed me how to find that space, that community.
But after the concert, you came over and told me that next year it would be my turn. You were sure of it. I just needed to keep practicing, and have a little bit of confidence in myself. You reinvigorated me.
I still keep the note you wrote on my score card from my 8th grade audition on top of my bookshelf at home. That next year, I worked so hard for that score, for that second chair. I look at that note, and I’m so proud of my little pre-teen self, and how she pushed through and genuinely worked hard for something she wanted. She didn’t have a lot of faith in herself then, but you did, and you helped her see that.
After one year away from band though, I caved. I joined the pep band last year, and I remembered so much of what frustrated me about playing music, and also how much I loved being a part of an entity greater than myself. I remembered the community you had fostered back in middle school, and how safe it felt to enter your classroom. Going back to the pep band felt like coming home. You showed me how to find that space, that community.
Thank you.
Dear Middle School Best Friend,
I remember when you came up to me on the playground in 5th grade, me in tears and you in an outfit straight out of a Justice catalog. But when 6th grade rolled around, my elementary school best friend, the one who’d owned the other half of my shiny silver BFF necklace, was zoned for a different middle school than me. I was distraught. My social life was soon to be over.
But then you were there on the playground. You found me crying again and you comforted me. You and I were going to the same middle school, and you said that I was stuck with you. Little did you know, I wanted nothing more.
Just know that I still think about you, and how you made middle school suck a little bit less. It was purgatory, but we idled there together.
We sat next to each other on the bus on the first day of middle school, and in every class we shared. You didn’t make fun of me when I shared my insecurities with you. We planned out our matching tattoos in gym class, drawing in marker on each other’s hands when we should have been playing kickball. We traded smiley faces, each drawing one on the other’s hand, cementing our friendship in vibrant purple ink—our favorite color.
I can’t remember the last time I spoke to you. I can’t even really remember when we stopped speaking regularly. Did it happen slowly or all at once? Just know that I still think about you, and how you made middle school suck a little bit less. It was purgatory, but we idled there together. I hope we’ll see each other sometime soon, and that you have found other friends who appreciate you for how kind and generous you are. You showed me how to really care for my friends.
Thank you.
Dear 8th Grade English Teacher,
Is it ever scary to think about how much influence you have over your students? One thing you say or do, and they might remember that for the rest of their lives?
Don’t worry—this is a good one.
I don’t know if you even remember this, but I do, and I think about it all the time. My friends and I were in your classroom, after the final bell but before after school activities began. I don’t know how we got on the subject.
Citizen of the Month.
A silly little piece of paper. A short, 10-minute exclusive breakfast, a photo-op, then right back to class. Each teacher chose one of their students every month for this nearly meaningless achievement, and in the six years my schools had participated in the program, I hadn’t won once.
You heard me, even when I didn’t think anyone was listening. You cared about what I cared about, even when I pretended not to really care. Your choice was small, but I think about how much it meant to me, then and now.
And I wanted it so badly—craved the recognition. Even though by 8th grade I had come to recognize how inconsequential the award was, it still hurt that none of my other teachers had ever chosen me.
I told you that once, offhandedly. I didn’t think much of it. But I was your next pick for citizen of the month. When I found out, I actually cried. (Which, for a thirteen year old trying to shake the crybaby label, was a big deal.)
I tried to play off the award with my friends, it was essentially meaningless. But secretly, I reveled in the fact that it was finally mine.
You heard me, even when I didn’t think anyone was listening. You cared about what I cared about, even when I pretended not to really care. Your choice was small, but I think about how much it meant to me, then and now. You showed me how my little choices impact the people I care about. With that flimsy piece of paper, which I keep tucked away in a folder of 8th grade memories, you showed me how we have a responsibility to others to do right by them, especially when we have the opportunity to.
Thank you.
Though some days I cringe at the memories of my bumbling know-it-all twelve year-old self, I am still deeply grateful for that awkward kid in part I grew into the person I am today in part because of those three years in purgatory.
Middle school was never supposed to be a place to put down roots. Nearly as soon as we were there, we were heading off to bigger and better things. We were told to sit patiently, to stick out the traffic, and wait for our turn to hit the gas. Now, only in the rearview, I can see how formative those three years were. Though some days I cringe at the memories of my bumbling know-it-all twelve year-old self, I am still deeply grateful for that awkward kid in part I grew into the person I am today in part because of those three years in purgatory.
Even more, I am grateful for the friends and teachers who were there for me and showed me how to be a person, which is daunting when you’re twelve and feel like you need to navigate life on your own. Luckily, they drew a map for me of where to go and how to be, and while I think I’ve got the hang of it now, I know I can always think back to what I learned from middle school to check if I’m still on the right path.
