Middle school. A hub of adolescents endeavoring to establish their identity while not yet mature enough to see themselves as distinct from others. It is a delicate balance between isolating in complete uniqueness vs losing one’s self to the whims of peers.

Our junior high is a two story brick building built in 1922. It smells of old damp stone and years of hormonal teenagers not yet committed to the new hygienic demands of their bodies. The building is nearing the end of it’s useful life and will be demolished within the decade.

It is decided that following Thanksgiving break, I will move from seventh grade to eighth. My parents meet resistance as they advocate for me to be challenged academically but the primary argument against this plan is that my friends will be driving a car before me. You read that right – that was it. My parents thought challenging my brain was more important than driving at the same time as my peers.

Over Thanksgiving break my father teaches me the first few months of curriculum for Algebra and on December 2 I start eighth grade. I am nervous to have classes without my friends but I am sure it will be fine. We will still see each other between classes.

We do in fact see each other, but we no longer speak. It is unexpected and confusing.

My new classmates are not unfriendly. Some are in fact cruel. The rest are either enjoying the show or not yet established in their identity enough to intervene. I am told by my peers that I see myself as superior to all of them. I don’t know if it’s really true. I don’t think about myself in comparison to others. True or not I am unable to convince anyone otherwise.

In an attempt to find acceptance I grow increasingly conservative and traditional in my presentation. I ask my parents to enroll me in confirmation classes through our church and begin reading the bible certain that there is some virtue to this isolation.

I start wearing dresses. I am not sure exactly how this might help but I do know that I am not like my peers. Maybe this will help me convince them that I am. It doesn’t occur to me that no one else is wearing a dress.

Every day I dread lunch. There is not enough room to sit completely alone and there is no other option free from harassment.

I still need to finish my health class but due to scheduling conflicts I finish the curriculum as an independent study in the library. The librarian is a kind and funny man who doesn’t seem to mind my presence. The safe haven is appreciated.

A favored between-class activity involves a group walking towards me so they can shove me a few times while the apathetic teachers choose not to notice. Not all of the teachers are this checked out – ironically only those who seem to be monitoring the hallways. The most extreme of these encounters comes in the form of a full soda can in a brown paper bag. I’m shoved face first into the lockers – the bag is swung and connects with my back. It is shockingly painful as the edge of the can lands between two vertebrae. I am slow to recover and am not sure which one of my classmates did it. The not knowing is more effective if the goal is terror because rather than just feeling nervous when that person is around, I am anxious always.

Always – except the last period of the day.

This classroom is odd – it has no windows as it is in the middle of the building. The dark wood paneling on every wall and the black table tops absorb most of the light from the generously spaced florescent lights. While the floor is white the sheen has dulled with age lending very little assistance to the lack of light. There are colorful posters with inspirational sayings, “What is popular is not always right – what is right is not always popular.”

There is a friendly little chinchilla named, Chase. He is ridiculously soft. He doesn’t concern himself with adolescent cliques – he is secure in his identity. I respect that about him.

This classroom seems larger than the rest or perhaps the teacher is just smaller. 5’0″… maybe 5’2″. Brown hair, small wrists, large eyes and an infectious smile. Her accent advertises a central Wisconsin upbringing. I might categorize her approach to fashion as, “Northern Wisconsin Science Teacher” with khaki and plaid in equal parts.

She is unapologetically herself. When I think of her now, as I often do, the first thing I hear is her laugh. She makes up for not only the lack of light in the room but quite a few other deficits beyond that room as well.

Above all else she is kind. At a time when I am want for friends she is generous with her time. I feel heard and valued and I look forward to the end of the day each day. I find excuses to bring my guitar to school – wanting to show her the new song I learned. She is complimentary despite my total inability to sing.

During this time my primary instrument is violin. My violin teacher has a severe German last name and she leverages that heritage to swat me with her bow, reminding me to use good form. They are love swats. Under all the chaos that is her hair and her demeanor she has a tender soul. I know she enjoys our time together and her non-nurturing manner gives space for me to breathe yet insists that I not fall apart.

I continue to struggle with my peers – anxiety giving way to pessimism and darkness. My mother would often pick me up from school, lock me in the car and drive around until I was done talking and crying about all that had occurred that day.

This day is the worst so far. I’m not sure if there is something in particular or if the weight of isolation and complete otherness is simply wearing me down. I become unable to see my worth and I just want to not feel this way. Or not feel anything at all.

My science teacher asks me to stay after class. I am surprisingly annoyed. I have violin lessons immediately after school and am feeling rushed. More than anything though I just want to be alone. I hope she doesn’t ask how I’m doing. I can neither lie or answer truthfully.

She hands me a children’s book. She says something to me but I am so submerged in my depression that I can’t make out the words. Why is she giving me a children’s book? Does she think I am stupid?! This thought is completely irrational but I am rather lost.

I drag myself up to the music room. I take my violin out of the case and warm up a bit. Mrs. German-Name needs to run to the office before we can begin, it will be a few minutes.

I am still reeling. A children’s book?! I take it out of my bag and open the cover and the ridiculousness of my mistake shakes me. There is an inscription. “Always follow your dreams. You always have my support.”

I read a page, “You have brains in your head. You have feet in your shoes. You can steer yourself any direction you choose. You’re on your own. And you know what you know. And YOU are the guy who’ll decide where to go.”

She, of course, is not insulting my intelligence or casually sharing a story she enjoys. She is sending a critical, perhaps life saving message.

I rush downstairs and back to her classroom but she is already gone. I feel ashamed for my lack of grace.

I come to understand two important things:

1. Finding one’s identity requires self absorption which can blind us to our impact on others. My peers were as unaware of their impact on me as I was of my impact on her.
2. Those who have secured their identity can choose to provide others with an extraordinary gift of acceptance and encouragement.