The truth of the matter is, I was a very troubled pre-pubescent kid. Back then, I was the perfect, albeit awkward, picture of mediocrity. It was hard, knowing you weren’t particularly good at anything. I was just the chubby twelve-year-old in the middle row. In the middle row you’re neither the tallest nor the shortest, not the brightest, not even the dumbest. You’re just insignificantly in between.
My best friend was the Chinese garter champion and during recess time my other classmates ogled at the chance to be part of her team. Of course they always won. I’d be the scorer. Asthmatic kids get to be scorers.
Hannah was so pretty that even high school guys were smitten; I wondered if I’d ever be as thin and tall as her. Ella was this amazingly petite girl in the front row who messed up her f’s and p’s, but she was an honor student since birth so nobody really did mind. Sally’s handwriting was so neat and well-praised by the teachers; mine looked like a terrible hieroglyphic version. Even my seatmate with a perennially runny nose had something to his name, he was known as the guy with the dirtiest hanky.
Sometimes I wish I had something else spectacularly unique in me. Something nobody else had. I was constantly longing for that missing piece. Troubled, I’d wonder if some people were made simply plain and without a talent to their name. And if so, was I one of them? For a twelve-year-old, I had pretty disturbing thoughts.
I couldn’t bake well enough to steal Amy’s ribbon for Best Butter Cookies in Home Economics. I was too lazy to compete with Jay for the librarian’s annual “Most Widely Read” award. And I was too chubby for baton twirling auditions too, so I never dared.
Then one Monday morning, our English teacher introduced us to the kinds of written compositions, from poetry to feature stories. I was momentarily bored. Great, I thought, here was another opportunity to show off my mediocrity. As a project, she asked us to write something, anything at all—a poem, a short story, as long as it was written in English and submitted at her desk by Tuesday. I opted to write an editorial. I thought it was a lot easier than rhyming words and counting syllables anyway. So I wrote a piece on political and environmental problems relevant at that time. It was a gory subject and somewhat depressing for a sixth grader who should be more involved with Cartoon Network and the Power Rangers. But I finished the piece on time.
