Yep, fifth grade was miserable. Led by Saria, the “popular” students tortured me endlessly. They made fun of the nondesigner clothes I wore and told me I dressed like a boy. They laughed at the Oldsmobile station wagon my mother drove, while they roared off with their parents in expensive sports cars. They told me that the cool guys they loved, people like Jon Bon Jovi and Joey McIntyre, would never go for a flat-chested, plain dork like me, so I might as well just die now, because no one important would ever love me anyhow. (It never occurred to me that Bon Jovi and the New Kids were also rather unlikely to fall madly in love with any of the snotty ten-year-olds surrounding me, but I digress.) I went home from school and cried into my pillow a few times a week.
My mom kept telling me it would get better. I didn’t believe her. I thought that in Florida, maybe I’d be a geek forever. I’d always be wearing the wrong clothes, thinking the wrong things, and totally missing the boat when it came to boys.
That was around the time I read Anne Frank: The Diary of a Young Girl. It was a book that changed my life. I realized that in a way—on a much, much smaller scale—the bullies of the fifth grade were a little like the people who stole the life of that sweet, young, hopeful girl. Like the Nazis, I thought, the bullies didn’t think for themselves; they just dressed the way they were supposed to dress, thought the way they were told to think, and tried their best to make life miserable for anyone “different.” Anne Frank’s situation had been infinitely, unbelievably worse than mine; yet she’d remained hopeful and refused to let them steal her spirit. Maybe, I thought, I should try to do the same.
When I went to a new school for sixth grade, things began to change. I stood up for myself from the start. I didn’t let people walk on me. And although I still didn’t cloak myself in designer duds, I committed early on to being proud to rock the clothes I wanted to rock. I thought often of Anne Frank’s words: “The final forming of a person’s character lies in their own hands.” Like Anne Frank, I couldn’t control the world around me, but I could control my own perspective and what went on in my own heart.
By high school, I was still doing things that would have gotten me bullied in fifth grade: I was in the marching band; I was making straight As; and I still dressed in jeans and tees because they were more comfortable than designer dresses and heels. I was still flat-chested; I still hadn’t slept with a boy; I still had silly crushes and said silly things.
But here’s the difference: By high school, I’d made a decision. I was never going to be the coolest kid in school, nor would I wear the most expensive clothes or date the popular boys. But I was going to be me. And instead of letting people make me feel bad about myself, I was going to surround myself only with people who were kind, even if they were outcasts, too. And furthermore, I was going to stand up for people I saw being picked on.
And you know what happened? When I stopped feeling bad about myself and letting the bullies get the best of me, my attitude attracted other kind people. And by my senior year, we were the biggest group in the school, and thus the most popular ones. By typical high school standards, the fact that I was both the valedictorian and the drum major of the marching band should have resigned me to total geekdom, right? But in this case, because we’d worked hard to make our school a place where individuality was respected, I was not only not a geek but I was also the prom queen.
As my friend Ken is fond of saying, “Kind is the new cool.” And it is; that’s a secret I discovered back when I was in school, and it’s a thought I’ve lived by ever since.
There are probably always going to be mean kids; I suspect every school has its bullies. But you know what? I tell you from the bottom of my heart that the mean kids will never prosper. They may rule elementary, middle, and high schools around the country, but when they’re thrust into real adult society, they realize soon enough that cruelty and derision don’t pay. Not in the long term.
I’ve run into a few of the bullies from my childhood in the years since. Without exception, those who were the cruelest when we were kids have done almost nothing with their lives. One is even in jail. They peaked in their teens, and it’s been all downhill from there. Most of them are miserable, unfulfilled, and wishing they could go back to their glory days, when they were ten or twelve or sixteen. What kind of life is that?
I, on the other hand, have written six books. I have dozens of friends around the country and, indeed, around the world. I’ve dated celebrities (Take that, Saria!), seen my dreams come true, traveled to the places I’ve read about. Fifth grade was miserable, and I was the object of a year full of bullying torture. But now I’m happy, and like Anne Frank once wrote long ago, “whoever is happy will make others happy, too.” I hope that sometimes I’m able to do that in my life. I keep trying.
My life isn’t perfect, but it’s fulfilling. And most of all, because I try to live my life with kindness, I wake up every morning with a clean conscience and a smile in my heart.
Not bad for the Superdork of Shorecrest’s fifth-grade class of 1989.
“Who Gives the Popular People Power? Who???”
by Megan McCafferty
I have a survey I filled out at the end of first grade. In it, I ranked myself the smartest, funniest, and most popular girl in my class. This wasn’t a case of egotistically inflated self-worth; I was merely documenting the truth. I was the girl other girls wanted to sit next to at lunch, be partners with on school trips, and invite to Friday-night sleepovers. I didn’t try hard to be liked. I just was. My likability was effortless in a way that it would never be again.
Because things changed. Drastically.
January 1
My class at school sucks!
For me, sixth grade was the worst. It’s no coincidence, then, that it was also the year I discovered the therapeutic powers of writing and began chronicling in my diary all the backstabbing and casual playground cruelty.*
March 15
Amy and I aren’t good friends anymore. She’s always over Heather’s house. Like today I was gonna sleep over her house but she canceled because she’s going to the movies with Heather. Amy talks about Heather behind her back all the time (and denies doing it). I really hate this, I really do. I can’t compete with Heather. Who gives the popular people power? Who???
By the time I graduated Bayville Elementary School, I wasn’t popular anymore. Not even close. And the worst part about it was that I didn’t understand why. I was still the one who got straight As and could do a funny moonwalk on the blacktop, but smarts and a sense of humor weren’t valued qualities anymore. The rules for social success had been rewritten, and no one had bothered to send me a copy.
March 19
Right now I’m pretty miserable. When I went outside to play kickball they said the game was locked and I couldn’t join. What hurts most is that Amy played on without saying anything. I used to be the only person on her side when Heather got mad at her. I was a real friend! I know this is bad but I hope they all get mad at her. Then she’d really see who’s on her side and her friend. (I know it’s mean.) I really don’t have a lot of friends now so it’s not easy. I seriously think there is not one person who knows how to be a true-blue, one-of-a-kind, till-the-end friend. Geez, maybe I don’t even know, but at least I try—honest I do. I just don’t see why everyone adores Heather. I am (I don’t want to brag or lie) a lot nicer than her. Well, before I depress you (and me) I better go.