Public School

            by Kristina Chan

 

     “Um, excuse me, you didn’t call my name.”

            “Oh sorry.  Hmm…I don’t see it on the roll sheet.  Maybe you should go to the office; it must be a schedule mix up.”

            Great.  My first experience at King and in public education is not going smoothly.  Maybe I should have stayed in Catholic school.  Then I thought back on the seven years of the same forty people, the catty dramas, and the ever-present insecurity.  Actually, I take that back.  

            As I walked out of the dingy plywood portable, the biting wind seemed to go right through my Disneyland sweatshirt.  Where is the office anyway?  All the portables looked exactly the same; each was painted a particular shade of brown that brought to mind unpleasant images.

            Two slightly annoyed-looking students walked into one of the portables down the row, so I followed them in.  There was a line coming out of a small partitioned section inside.  A few people looked up blankly, but most just stared sleepily at the teal carpet, probably not believing their summer was over so soon.  One girl smiled.  At least there’s one friendly person, not just staring faces. 

            The line moved at a mind-numbingly slow rate.  It was almost as boring as the church services we were forced to go to at my old school.  Finally, I reached the distant goal, the administrator’s desk.  I showed her my schedule.

            “Now what seems to be the problem?”  It was only nine o’clock yet her face seemed impatient and slightly annoyed; the kind of face adults get when they have to deal with a bunch of teenagers all day. 

            “Um, I went to portable 12, Ms. Gordon’s room, but my name isn’t on the roll sheet, so I don’t know where I’m supposed to be.”

            “ You do know Ms. Gordon is in portable 15, right?”  She gave me a withering look that she seemed to have saved especially for me.  Jeez, what a welcome.

            I traipsed back outside, the chill wind meeting me once again.  I walked down the rows of portables, looking for the elusive number 15.  After much furtive searching, I entered the right classroom, only to be met by more blank stares. 

            “Can I help you?”

            “Yeah, my schedule got mixed up and I’m in this class.  My name’s Kristina Chan.”

            “Oh, okay, you can have a seat over here,” she said, pointing to a desk on the other side of the room.  I walked over, the eyes of my classmates accompanying me all the way. 

            The rest of the day dragged by in much the same way, trying to differentiate between the portables so I could get to my next class.  At my old school, the teachers had always come to us while we just sat there and relaxed.

            After school, all I could think was, so that’s what public school is really like? Mixed up schedules and blank stares? 

            I couldn’t sleep.  The past day and all the emotions it produced wouldn’t let me out of their grip.  The day hadn’t gone according to my impossible daydreams, but instead had played out in reverse.  The school had mixed up my schedule, I was late to almost every class, and I hadn’t made any new friends.  Why had I thought that public school would be any different from private school? Did I think that it didn’t also have its share of problems, drama, and insecurity?

            Well, whatever you had expected, there’s no use mulling over things now, so just go to sleep, Kristina.  Good idea. I’ll just forget about it and go to sleep…but why hadn’t I made friends? Was there something wrong with me?  Sure, the people at King seemed a little wild to my shy, catholic-school-girl mind, but there must be someone I could talk to.  There was one other girl who had come to King with me in a little exodus from our catholic school, and we were good friends.  This fact had lessened the social angst, but things were always worse than they seemed, in my mind. 

            The next day dawned sunny and clear, dispelling my worries and thoughts of the night before.  It was picture day, so I put on a crisp-looking shirt and brushed my hair out until I looked relatively presentable.

            Today, I found portable 15 easily and I was on time.  My first period, history class, started a lesson in our books, which promised to be a boring, wordy chapter on the ancient ruins of some obscure European country.  I stared at the clock, remembering with glee that I had my photo appointment in ten minutes.

            “Excuse me, but I have to get my picture taken in a few minutes.  Can I leave now?”

            “Oh no!  You’re going to miss the chapter on the Phoenicians! Can you take your book with you to read while you’re waiting?”

            “Um, sure….” Oh man, I thought I was gonna get out of that one.

            I took my book, and left for the picture portable, only to find a long line of students.  I got in the back and sat down cross-legged to “read” my history chapter.

            “Hi. Are you in Ms. Gordon’s class?” A girl in front of me asked.  She was looking at me with friendly hazel eyes.

            “Uh, yeah.” I must have looked confused, because she added,

            “Well, I ask ‘cuz I’m in her class, and she made me take my history book out to read, too.” She pointed to her book, and smiled.  I hadn’t noticed she was in my class before.

            “My name’s Joann, by the way, what’s yours?” 

            “Kristina.”

            “So, these Phoenicians…. Pretty fascinating, huh?”

            We talked some more on the one universally appealing subject to students: how much we hate homework. After my picture was taken, we walked back to class together.  As we reached the portable, its color didn’t seem as unpleasant as before; it was definitely a more chocolate-y brown.

 

            After a few weeks at King, the shock and novelty had worn off and my life had settled into a routine.  I made friends, and my classes were, for the most part, interesting.  As usual, I had worried too much; things never turned out as bad as I had imagined they would.  The bulk of my worries alleviated, I spent more time thinking about how different my new environment was.

            I went to catholic school for seven years, but all my memories of it have been lumped together, labeled “catholic school”, and shoved to the side of my brain where my mind doesn’t often wander.   Sometimes specific events get blurred and unclear, but one feeling that remains vivid is the insecurity.

            A few of my 5^th grade classmates and I were sitting together at lunch, talking about the newly formed basketball teams that we were assigned to, when Carrie came running up.

            “Guess what? I was just talking to Melanie, and she said that she wished that a certain person wasn’t on her team.  And that person’s sitting at this table.”

            We all looked around, wondering which unfortunate person it could be. 

            “Who was it?” we all asked.

            “Well, she said that she didn’t really want Kristina on her team.”  They all looked at me with a mixture of pity and wanting to know all the juicy details.  I could feel barely contained tears stinging in my eyes.  How could such a little comment hurt so much?  

            Why is she acting that way towards me? Why didn’t I get invited to her party? Does he like me?  These were the concerns and worries that ruled our insulated little world back then.  They were petty, stupid really, but the thing that scared me most was being an outcast.  I tried so hard not to be the object of ridicule that I lost who I was in the process.  I was afraid to voice my opinion because I thought that someone would think it was stupid. 

            After the initial adjustment, public school was fresh air to my oxygen-deprived lungs.  Private school had compressed my way of looking at things into a little box.  At King, you could be anything you wanted and it would be okay, you wouldn’t be on the receiving end of weird looks and stifled giggles.

            I don’t mean to say that private school is an altogether bad experience, and that others should avoid it.  On the contrary, many people emerge unscathed.  I suppose it depends on the type of person you are, how you react to different obstacles thrown in your path, if you have a clear idea of yourself and can remain true to that.

            I would be lying if I said that I had left all those years of private school, and that old way of thinking, behind me.  It’s hard to shed the experiences that made up a big chunk of your life, your whole childhood even.  Six years later and I am just beginning to “recover”, to feel comfortable with myself, which is something I never would have achieved in a private school.