Over My Head

The ball sailed through the air and over the heads of all the outfielders. I raced around the base path and stepped on the white-bordered home plate. I breathed heavily as I got back to the bench and took a seat. "Come on Alec!" I yelled. Mrs. Linebaugh rolled the ball towards home plate as Alec ran up and swung his leg into the ball. We watched the ball sail deep into the outfield while others frantically ran around the bases or after the ball.

"Wow, nice kick Alec," said one kid.

"Yeah, it was a beauty wasn't it?"                                                        

"I wish I could kick like that," said someone else.

As Alec was congratulated on his home run, the ball was caught for the third out of the inning. Mrs. Linebaugh called for the end of the game and for us to go back to class.

"Awww man. Do we have to?" we exclaimed. Unfortunately, we did have to and we headed back to class. I sat at my desk thinking about the kickball game I just played – not about the test tomorrow or the homework on fractions I had to struggle through that night.        

            That was third grade when nothing really mattered except having fun. Back then, the only thing on our mind was what was on TV and what to eat for snacks. Back then, homework took half an hour and then it was playtime. Back then, we got checks, pluses, or minuses on papers and our report cards were filled with the letters of 'E,' 'S,' and 'N.' (excellent, satisfactory, and incomplete). We knew what they meant, but we did not know how little they meant.

When the summer after third grade arrived I realized I was moving up into the scary fourth grade. For me this was a huge milestone because I was officially going to be one of the "big kids" in school; it also meant receiving the conventional grades of A's, B's, and C's. My perception of grades was distorted because of TV and my sister's seemingly constant complaints of sixth grade. Television made failing a test seem like the end of the world. And my sister never failed, yet never seemed happy with the results. All I thought about was what would happen if I failed a test. Would my parents scold me? Would my unknown future be ruined forever? I felt pressure to do well in school before school even started. It was pointless, but for some reason I became more and more worried that fourth grade would be the worst year of my life. I put traditional grades on a pedestal and that summer it really hit me that I was growing up.

            Throughout the summer I grew worrisome that fourth grade was going to be terrible. My parents seemed to always want my sister and me to get the best possible grade and then some. How could I compete with those expectations?

            Fourth grade actually started out like any other school year. We were introduced to our teacher. We learned everyone's name. We were given papers for our parents to sign. We were given some review worksheets on the various subjects we were taught last year. But most importantly we were given grades. Of course, to start out we all had A's, which felt good.

            Fourth grade was hard. We learned to do long division, perhaps the hardest thing I've ever done relative to my age. I also added playing an instrument to my repertoire. Sure, the clarinet doesn't look tough, but all the combinations of fingers covering air holes, all the while blowing on the reed to emit different sounds can get overwhelming for a ten year old. But fourth grade was not nearly as difficult as I thought it would be.

            "Andrew! Your report card is here," my mom excitedly shouted.

            I ran downstairs from my room and grabbed the already opened envelope. I quickly scanned it. "Yes! All A's!"

            "Actually, you have a B+ in history. But great job," my mom points out while my sister received her report card also.

            "Straight A's! I did better than you Andrew! I'm smarter than you," my sister gloated.

            "You're only smarter than me because you're older!"

I guess the fear of failing did motivate me to do better, despite its triviality. To this point though, I had not disappointed anyone.

            The next summer was carefree for me. Fifth grade was way less daunting than fourth grade was just a year ago. There was little difference between fourth and fifth grade given my previous fear. Of course it was going to be harder, but I realized that that is what school is supposed to do.

            "Andrew, I know you really want an A in history, but I just can't give it to you this time," my teacher Ms. B sympathetically said.

            "Awwww. Why not?"

            "That C on the test on Mesopotamia brought you down a lot."

            "Yeah, I know."

            "Just try harder next time."

            See, I got it into my head that my goal for fifth grade was to get straight A's. Maybe it was my parents' satisfaction of good academics, my sister's success in school, or both. But that goal wasn't achieved. I wasn't happy, but I wasn't disappointed. My parents were proud because I had good grades. But they would've been more satisfied if I got an A. At least I had yet to fail.

            Otherwise, fifth grade was a great year. I got to be in the Kensington Hilltop School yearbook which was quite a big thing because it meant you were one of the older kids. Another right of being an older kid was going on the end of the year field trip to Larkey Park where fifth and sixth graders played basketball, tag, capture the flag, played in the pool, and various other games of our childhood memories.

            Going into sixth grade was a great feeling too. We were going to be the oldest on the playground, the kings of the playground. We thought we could boss all the other grades around.

            Then the fear came back again, but a bit differently and slightly toned down this time. I did well in school and breezed by pretty easily. I was still playing the clarinet and I thought I was pretty good, which wasn't saying much. So why the fear? I wasn't afraid of grades or a new school. But now I was thinking that sixth grade was going to be too hard. It was going to be the last year of elementary school for me and most likely my hardest. I had preconceptions in my head that I was going to be swamped with work and never have time for any fun. So I decided to quit playing the clarinet. It was a tough decision, but sacrifices had to be made.

I sat at my desk so focused that my nose almost touched the paper I was writing on. Our test on Buddhism and its different branches was baffling me. There were only ten questions, but I knew two at most. I looked around to try to view my neighbor's answers. Their paper was as blank as mine. Eventually I finished the test, but with little confidence and a definite uneasiness in my stomach.

            The next day our teacher Ms. Tobin did not look very happy. She had a bunch of papers stacked up, covered in red marks. That could only mean one thing. I knew I didn't do well and I just had a bad feeling.

            "So it seems most of you did not know the material on yesterday's quiz. They did not fare too well," she said almost mockingly with her high-pitched voice. She passed back the tests and I was secretly praying for at least a C. I got mine back. It was almost all red. I only got three questions right?! I just stared at it for what could have been a century. That was the first time I ever failed anything. So many things raced through my head, but I mostly worried about what my parents would think and how they would react.

            "But since most of you did so badly, this quiz won't count," Ms. Tobin announced. I feel sort of relieved, but I still couldn't bear to look at that big, red 'F.'

            When I went home, I had to tell my parents. But the important part was figuring out a way to nicely put that I failed a test.

            "So Andrew how was your day?" my mom asked as she usually did at dinner.

            "Fine," I said with a stutter.

            "Anything special happen?"

            "Well," I paused and took a deep breath. "You know that quiz we had yesterday? I failed it."

            "You what?"

            "I got three out of ten right. Don't worry, Ms. Tobin said it won't even count because everyone else failed too."

            My parents frowned and looked disappointed. "Not good," was all they said. But they weren't infuriated with cherry-red faces like I thought they would be.

            "You guys aren't mad?"

            "No."

            I didn't respond, partly because I was shocked. And then dinner ended in silence. Why weren't they mad? I didn't understand. I had thought I would be grounded or at least not have any dessert for a week. But they didn't say anything. After two hours I went back to go talk to my parents.

            "Why aren't you guys mad?"

            "Andrew, did you try your hardest?" my mom asked.

            "Yes," I sort of lied.

            "Then that's all we ask for."

            I was surprised that they didn't really care about the result, but what I put into my work. That day I learned that my parents want me to do my best, but more importantly they want me to try my best. That's pretty much how I've looked at school since then. It's hard to always try my hardest though, so my parents get mad at me occasionally, especially when I don't study for a test.

            I sat down in my assigned seat a few rows back and towards the middle aisle. I looked for Rex and Alec, who were both behind me. I looked down at my twiddling thumbs and tied the loose laces of my dress shoes. The principal, Miss Kantor, stood at the podium. She called out the first name and the student stood up to receive their official Kensington Hilltop School diploma. I watched the other kids who sat in front go up and graduate while I anxiously waited for my name to be called.

            Looking back, fretting about grades was foolish and caused unnecessary stress. But it was a time of growth for me. It was a time to learn how trivial some things were back then and even now. Elementary school had its ups and downs and I wish I understood that back then. Life would have been so much easier.

            "Andrew Lowe."  I heard it! I walked up onto the wooden stage, reached out with my left hand to grab my diploma, and extended my right hand to shake Miss Kantor's hand.

"Congratulations," she said with a bright smile.

"Thank you so much," I said with an even brighter smile. All I thought was, "Now just don't trip and you're on your way to middle school."