home-schooled. They believe that the stratified, hierarchical socialization of children into one generic mass, distinguishable only by grades that reflect a limited range of abilities, can’t be healthy. You are disappointed even though they tell you again and again that you don’t want to be part of that kind of system. You’ve actually enjoyed school so far. Entering late in the second grade has been some kind of strange blessing, a buffer. Teachers make note of it and don’t expect as much, so when you do well – catch on to long division quickly, excel at spelling tests – they are pleased. You have become a testament to how well the system can work. You’ve adapted well and fit in, you know this from the comments on your report cards.
And you do fit in. You are in the sixth grade and have made it this far without getting the tar beaten out of you. You don’t consider yourself popular, or even well-liked, but you are tolerated in a kind and gentle way by both the girls and the boys. It isn’t like this for everyone. There are kids who are teased and bullied ceaselessly, and sometimes brutally. Marty Cruickshank has been kicked so many times since the first grade by boys and girls alike that he has dents in his shin bones. The sad thing isthat it is Marty, himself, who points this out, invites kids to run their hands down his almost hairless legs, feel the ridges. He has had his arms twisted around the tether ball pole, hands in the grip of two boys while others line up to slam his head into the pole with the ball, the chain catching in his hair. He has been teased with such fervour during a class presentation that, before the teacher could stop the taunting, Marty wet himself, a dark stain growing on his tan-coloured dress pants. Barbara Sanducci has been called Brabra since she developed at a startling rate in the fourth grade and it was revealed that she received bras in her stocking at Christmas. She has been stripped of those bras, forcibly, in the boys’ change room, and once gagged with one, hands tied behind her back with her own shirt. The janitor found her there and, they say, she wasn’t even crying. It is the girls who do things like this to her, call her Brabra. The boys take the “duc” in her last name and call her “the Douche.”
You are not one of these kids, and while you feel sorry for them, your own feeling of relief overrides this. You don’t do anything terrible to the Martys and the Douches – no one would expect you to – but you are vigilant in ignoring them. Clearly, there is something wrong with kids like that and you don’t want anything to rub off on you. The other kids treat you well. You were given the nickname “Mouse” shortly after you arrived for, of course, being as quiet as one. Like other small cute things, you have become a kind of mascot for the kids in your grade. The boys pick you for teams in gym class. Not first or second, but often the third or fourth call someone willsay, “We’ll take the Mouse-Man” and it’s not because you are remarkably good at any sports, although you have passable skills in most of them. Girls have always tried to help you with your schoolwork even though you haven’t needed assistance since the first couple months of the second grade. They hover over your desk, smelling like root beer, bubble gum, dirt, until the teacher tells them to sit down. Recently, they’ve even approached you in the halls. They say, “Hi-i, Mou-ouse,” dragging out the monosyllables, twisting pieces of their hair, giggling. They’ll do this one after another sometimes, in quick succession, and then all gather at the end of the hall and giggle together, looking over their shoulders at you. Some of these girls are “going around” with boys in the seventh grade but those boys don’t mind. In fact, now even they acknowledge you. “Hey, Mouse-Man,” they’ll nod as if to concede some strange kinship developed through the sixth grade girls giggling
And you do fit in. You are in the sixth grade and have made it this far without getting the tar beaten out of you. You don’t consider yourself popular, or even well-liked, but you are tolerated in a kind and gentle way by both the girls and the boys. It isn’t like this for everyone. There are kids who are teased and bullied ceaselessly, and sometimes brutally. Marty Cruickshank has been kicked so many times since the first grade by boys and girls alike that he has dents in his shin bones. The sad thing isthat it is Marty, himself, who points this out, invites kids to run their hands down his almost hairless legs, feel the ridges. He has had his arms twisted around the tether ball pole, hands in the grip of two boys while others line up to slam his head into the pole with the ball, the chain catching in his hair. He has been teased with such fervour during a class presentation that, before the teacher could stop the taunting, Marty wet himself, a dark stain growing on his tan-coloured dress pants. Barbara Sanducci has been called Brabra since she developed at a startling rate in the fourth grade and it was revealed that she received bras in her stocking at Christmas. She has been stripped of those bras, forcibly, in the boys’ change room, and once gagged with one, hands tied behind her back with her own shirt. The janitor found her there and, they say, she wasn’t even crying. It is the girls who do things like this to her, call her Brabra. The boys take the “duc” in her last name and call her “the Douche.”
You are not one of these kids, and while you feel sorry for them, your own feeling of relief overrides this. You don’t do anything terrible to the Martys and the Douches – no one would expect you to – but you are vigilant in ignoring them. Clearly, there is something wrong with kids like that and you don’t want anything to rub off on you. The other kids treat you well. You were given the nickname “Mouse” shortly after you arrived for, of course, being as quiet as one. Like other small cute things, you have become a kind of mascot for the kids in your grade. The boys pick you for teams in gym class. Not first or second, but often the third or fourth call someone willsay, “We’ll take the Mouse-Man” and it’s not because you are remarkably good at any sports, although you have passable skills in most of them. Girls have always tried to help you with your schoolwork even though you haven’t needed assistance since the first couple months of the second grade. They hover over your desk, smelling like root beer, bubble gum, dirt, until the teacher tells them to sit down. Recently, they’ve even approached you in the halls. They say, “Hi-i, Mou-ouse,” dragging out the monosyllables, twisting pieces of their hair, giggling. They’ll do this one after another sometimes, in quick succession, and then all gather at the end of the hall and giggle together, looking over their shoulders at you. Some of these girls are “going around” with boys in the seventh grade but those boys don’t mind. In fact, now even they acknowledge you. “Hey, Mouse-Man,” they’ll nod as if to concede some strange kinship developed through the sixth grade girls giggling
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