One day in Middle School

I was standing at my locker getting ready for science class when I heard the loudspeaker. “All students wearing jeans must report to the office immediately.”

“What a strange announcement,” I thought. Granted, it was also a free dress day, meaning we did not have to wear our uniforms, but why were jeans getting this attention? This was too far over the line. I hadn’t seen any other students in jeans, but then again, I hadn’t been looking.

The announcement was meant only for me. I looked down at my jeans, wide bottoms, what else it was 1982. I was a strong-willed 13-year-old sophomore but also so unempowered, so I was feeling good about breaking the rules at a school I had no desire to attend. Nobody had said anything to me, so I thought I was getting away with my blue jean rebellion.

My middle school was a private Catholic all-girls school in West Los Angeles. It was run by nuns with some lay teachers. The school wanted to pound every round peg into their annoying square of conformity. I had just returned from a summer vacation in Virginia, and the last thing I wanted to do was follow their rules, which I found stupid and degrading.

My science teacher, called to me from the door of her classroom, which was near my locker. “Hurry up and change, then come immediately to class.” She winked at me. She had always been fair and kind to me. I had a pair of corduroy pants with me (or “cords” as we called them in the ’80s) and rushed to the bathroom to change. I ran back to the science classroom, sat down, quickly opened my textbook, and buried my head in it. I never reported to the office. At that moment, I felt supported in my desire to go against the current, something that I rarely felt at school.

I looked around the classroom to see if I had missed seeing another student wearing jeans. Nope. I had been the only one, at least in science class. I pretended to study, but my mind was racing. Who had singled me out? Then I remembered. Earlier in the day, I had passed the history teacher and volleyball coach, in one of the stairwells. I remembered the stern; disapproving look he had given me. His face could not conceal the hostility he was feeling. I knew then that he was the one who had reported my transgression. Why did he have so much animosity for me wearing jeans? I realized he wanted me to pay for my choice. Why? Where was this coming from? Surely, others had also flaunted the rules. Why was I being targeted?

My next class was on the floor above, so I took one of the stairways. On the second flight of stairs, I saw the coach and teacher coming toward the staircase from the front office. I didn’t pay much attention until he got closer. I typically did my best to avoid him. Then he paused, so I looked up at him and the look of disappointment on his face mixed with disgust and hatred was something I will never forget. I am in my 50s now, and that is still the most intense amount of hatred anyone has ever directed at me. I imagine that part of what got to him was that I had outsmarted him by changing out of my jeans and not going to the office. I worked my face into a disinterested smirk and continued walking to class. I felt satisfied with my response to such unwarranted hatred, but I also felt crushed. I felt utterly alone.

At this point in my high school experience, I was distancing myself from the mainstream kids and had just two people I considered friends. Most students looked down on the three of us — they judged us as loaners and losers. There were just the three of us, and we only had each other. The coach’s behavior towards me was so disturbing and scary that I didn’t feel safe sharing it with my two friends. I imagined they would surely think I was to blame.

Perhaps my fear of sharing my experience with Mr. Brenner originated from the trauma I experienced at home. My parents repeatedly blamed me for almost everything. I was always wrong, and I was always responsible for everything that happened.

During my freshman year I had kept my head down and stayed invisible. I was used to going unnoticed, and being a target was new to me. I ran different potential reasons through my head. Was it because of my pain-in-the-ass parents? My parents had big mouths and regularly took issue with the screwy school, but this felt bigger than my parents. Was I giving off a victim vibe that gave people the impression I was easy to bully? In any case, this was the day I realized the coach had it in for me. But why?

I never felt so lonely in my life. That was hard and so serious that the feeling of loneliness has never left me.