Two of the more (emotionally) devastating moments of my childhood involved pain. One situation involved physical pain, and the other situation involved the pain of embarrassment.
The first incident happened during a hospital visit. A nurse had to give me two shots — one in the back of each leg — to get me to calm down enough to have an MRI done. I was only five. Five.
The other situation wasn’t as terrible, but it involved me making a fool of myself. This was in third grade, when we still had a class specifically dedicated to reading. They gave us time to read in class, and I remember enjoying that part of the class. (I loved to read middle-grade books, which are still a marvel to me.)
I feel like middle-grade books are probably harder to write than picture books or YA books, because it’s so hard to write authentically and capture an eight- or nine-year-old’s attention. By the time you’re in middle school, you start to realize what feels fake, what feels real, what feels genuine, and what feels like moralizing. Or pandering.
Even in a time of confusion and growing pains, it seems like most tweens can figure out the difference between a gimmick and a gem. The good middle-grade books are definitely gems.
In spite of my passion for reading, I didn’t always like doing my reading class homework. One of our homework assignments involved preparing a paragraph that used at least two or three of that week’s vocabulary words. I hadn’t done the assignment, just because I’d simply forgotten to – and when it was time to share our paragraphs with the class, I decided to do an impromptu, off-the-cuff story.
This wasn’t like me at all — not having done my homework and giving an impromptu performance. It must’ve been an awful performance, because the teacher called me out and asked why I didn’t do the assignment the right way. I can’t remember what my punishment was, but … I’m sure I didn’t enjoy it.
That teacher was the kind of schoolmarm who made “lesser” students feel bad. But I was already very acutely aware of “my station” in the school’s social strata. By the time I left that elementary school, I was the only girl in my class who didn’t have a doctor for a parent.
My experiences there gave me an aversion to parochial education, too, which I find regressive for reasons that have absolutely nothing to do with religion. (It’s the strict prissiness of it all. I’m fine with the pageantry, but I can’t stand the constant glaring and the constant finger-wagging.)
Anyway, I …
I suppose I had it relatively easy, if those are two of the “meaner” interactions I’ve had with other people. But they left an impression on me — and made me feel more aware of my own shortcomings — so that’s something.
If nothing else, I’ve learned to be less harsh with children. And that really is something.
Jamais Mayville 