High School High?

Student Council Class President, two years; Class Treasurer, two years; Captain of the Varsity Soccer Team, three years; Most Valuable Player, two years; Most Valuable Freshman on the Varsity Soccer Team; Who’s Who Among High School Students of America, three years; National Honor Society, three years; 3.95 GPA at graduation… That is an excerpt from the Resume that got me in to Kalamazoo, College. Where I go from this place and who I am now, can be traced to my formative years at West Bloomfield High School, either for better or worse.

Walking through the huge entry doors into the two story atrium at seven on any day Monday to Friday, you would see the “popular kids.” The cute, well dressed freshman girls, waiting for the older boys to notice them, had their own little corner. The senior girls who resented presence of underclassmen girls within their circles huddled next to their male counterparts, marking their territory. In season athletes stood, donning their green and white jackets and gym bags, talking about an upcoming game or amazing play. Sounds typical, I recognize, but throw in designer handbags and expensive cars, and the scene resembles a cheesy Hollywood exaggeration of high school portrayed in some Freddie Prinze Jr. film. Little did I know of cruel high school politics when I walked into school on the first day of my freshman year.

My mom had woken up with me at 5:30 that morning to dry my hair and help me get ready for my first day of classes. I wore a pink XOXO sweater with my new grey Z. Cavaricci pants with my new Calvin Klein messenger bag, the fact that I still remember that demonstrates my attention to detail in presentation. I felt like I blended well with my surroundings, except of course my athletic build that did not match the slender dancer’s bodies of so many of the other girls. Despite my less than graceful, almost boyish walk, people had taken notice of “Jenn, the tall blonde girl.”

It was always flattering when I introduced myself to someone new, and encountered a look of recognition. Within the first couple of months of school, I was brought into the clique with the “popular girls.” When I would walk into school, I confronted a screaming group of girls who complimented my outfit, haircut, or any other superficial conversation piece. I had traveled into a foreign territory, bringing with me a few of my friends that would fit the mold, and leaving behind those who did not. Weekends full of birthday parties and social gatherings were like a dream come true to a once awkward adolescent. I was adopted into a world because of my looks and like anything else superficial, the novelty wore off.

On the surface, everything seemed perfect, but I realized early, I could not play that part forever. For the first time in my life, I started to feel insecure. It seemed that all of those other girls had more dates, better grades, cuter clothes, and more connections. To keep up and stand out, I learned to accessorize, laugh loudly at everything, keep my personal life private, and walk with my head high surrounded by an aura of self-assurance. Outwardly, confident and poised, I was intimidating to others, while inside I was always on my guard, waiting for the delicate balance between illusion and reality to crumble.

It never bothered me that people misperceived me as stuck-up or bitchy. Rather, it proved that I had succeeded in hiding my own insecurities and dissatisfaction with the shallow nature of my relationships. In adopting the motto, “you look good, you feel good,” I learned to appear put together and collected, like the duck on the pond that seems calm, but under the surface his webbed feet are paddling furiously to stay afloat. By masking my inner disapproval, I disconnected myself from any experience, and able to elevate myself above the superficiality.

On graduation day I walked up to the podium to address my classmates and their families for one last time. It was in that moment, when I looked over the sea of green and white caps, that I realized that the next chapter of my life gave me a chance to start all over. After commencement I watched my girlfriends bawling, hugging one another, and taking pictures. For me high school is a series of photographs, where I exist as static figure, smiling, and blending in. It is easy to fake a life when you have all the attributes of popularity and facades are more important than substance.

The distinction between people knowing you and knowing who you are is subtle and recognizable through retrospect. When I think about my high school friends, with a few exceptions, I cannot remember any details about their lives. I can recall an outfit from nine years ago in infinite detail, yet I can’t remember old inside jokes or memories from those four years. My experiences in high school encouraged me to bifurcate my personality into a private and a public life. Even now, I am still learning how to reconcile the two by allowing people to see my vulnerabilities, while dressing well, but actually feeling confident at all the same time.