My ninth-grade year was difficult, to say the least. My family was the poorest we’d ever been. My father had lost his job and was going through a depression that presented itself in bursts of violence, and my mother was even more checked-out than usual. I should have been excited about starting high school, but there was nothing special to mark the occasion. We couldn’t afford new clothes or school supplies, which was especially sad for me since I only had one pair of pants. Also, our water had been turned off for failure to pay, so I had to walk to my best friend’s house to bathe. As I said, difficult, to say the least.

Home issues aside, I enjoyed school, and I liked my classmates. We had all of our core courses together and got to know each other well. So, it was a huge blow when I walked into Algebra 1, and the entire class started snickering and clapping. Apparently, they had noticed my single pair of pants and celebrated because that day, I’d worn a pair of my sister’s jeans. Learning that this had been a topic of conversation and humor behind my back was devastating.

But, Spanish class was different. No one ever treated me any different because of my clothes or apparent signs of poverty. There was one guy in particular who I really liked talking to and joking around with. He wore only named brand clothes and always had the newest everything. His shoes alone were about $150, but I never cared about that. I was his friend because he was hilarious – but it was hard not to notice the difference in social status. He was actually one of my favorite people in that school. After my ninth-grade year, the district stopped bussing, so I had to switch schools and lost contact with him. But, I often wondered how he was doing and what he’d become.

One day, years after graduation, I ran into him on the bus on my way home from work. I was SO excited to see him! I spoke a mile a minute, asking questions and rehashing funny memories, but he didn’t say much. We’d talked and laughed every day in school – I guess it wasn’t as memorable for him. When I finally calmed down, I told him that he was one of my favorite people at the school; he looked at me and basically shouted, “Really? Because I always thought you were stuck-up and thought you were better than everybody.”

I. Was. Stunned.

So stunned that I couldn’t form a response. All that could be heard was the stifled laughter of other bus riders.

After about a minute, I refuted his accusation, but he cut me off to say that I was always rude about sharing a pencil or a piece of paper. Then he went on about the ridiculousness of that since it was only a pencil and piece of paper. I said nothing. The wind had been knocked out of me. The laughs of the riders who reveled in the annoyingly proper-speaking girl being told off was one thing. But I had wanted so badly to run into this guy! To see how he was doing! And THIS was his memory of me?!!

We rode in silence. He got off at his stop and me at mine. Once alone, I had space to consider what had just happened. It was true, he asked to borrow school supplies almost every day, and I absolutely didn’t want to share them. Not because I thought I was better than anyone – quite the opposite – my parents couldn’t afford them! I seriously considered how hard my mother worked to get us the meager supplies we did have; I wasn’t okay with giving them away.

What was so unfair to me was that I never once judged him for wearing $150 basketball shoes while never having paper. It was just a part of who he was, and I accepted that. I didn’t charge his character the way he’d charged mine. Yet, while I’m wearing the same pair of pants daily, walking ten blocks to bathe, and rationing sheets of paper, he’s swimming in Tommy Hilfiger and Jordans, accusing me of superiority! Did I say that I was stunned because, seriously, I was super stunned! 

I wish I’d had the presence of mind to explain everything to him. I don’t often freeze, but it was like an unexpected uppercut. By the time I came to my senses, he was gone. I try to take a lesson from every experience that comes my way, but this was tough. I never thought I was better than him or anyone else. I was just trying to survive. I can’t understand how that translated into being stuck-up. And although it’s been almost 20 years since that day, I still think about it all the time and still want to plead my case.

I often wonder how many people had/have these same thoughts about me – especially people I adore. As a result, I find myself purposely exposing my negative qualities so that others won’t think I’m superior. I also give just about anything to anyone, even when I know I shouldn’t, so that I won’t seem “stuck-up.” My inner control freak believes that I can control the judgments made on me, which is ludicrous, I know.

Another thing I’m working on.