That morning I woke-up with the intense, youthful,
anticipation that only a twelve-year-old girl is capable of. I hopped out of bed and started putting on my
costume. Like most super-cool, junior
high students, I thought long and hard about what to dress-up as. The most logical conclusion was a gigantic
bag of jellybeans.
First, I put on my tights and leotard (yes, people you read
that correctly, a leotard! TOTALLY NORMAL).
Then, with my mom’s help, I tied Saran Wrap around my thighs and neck
and we began to fill the space between my body and the Saran Wrap with
multi-colored balloons. I was as big
around as I was tall. If that weren’t
enough, we placed a paper plate, with balloons stapled on top of it, to the top
of my head, fastened with a large pink ribbon tied underneath my
chin. My mom thought I was
adorable. I thought I was adorable. Convinced I would win the school’s “best costume”
award I headed out the door.
With a spring in my step, I walked to the bus stop. Suddenly, the air was taken out of my sails
(but not my balloons) when I realized not a single person was dressed-up. My friend, Missy, could see the horror on my
face. She assured me people would be
dressed-up at school. The only reason
she wasn’t was because she couldn’t think of anything to be. It certainly wasn’t because wearing a costume
in junior high was the lamest thing ever!
When the bus pulled up, everyone piled on; except for
me. I couldn’t fit through the
door. Sadly, I turned around and waddled
back home. I explained to my mom that no
one was dressed up and I wanted to change.
Like all good mothers who play a part in making their children’s life a
living hell, my mom convinced me other kids would be dressed-up, and she
discouraged me from changing. With
salvaged confidence, I clumsily got into the van and my mom took me to school.
My fears were realized when I began to walk the halls and
noticed very quickly, that no one was dressed-up. Other than the occasional painted face, and
the kids that wore their sports uniforms, I was the only one who took Halloween
seriously. I felt awful. And I was itchy! I barely got through fifth period without
crying. All day long, kids were
pointing, laughing and chasing me through the halls with sharpened pencils.
Hope returned as I waddled down the hallway toward the
gym. In my mind I was planning out the
logistics of executing the perfect Running Man, when I heard a boy yell, “Get
her!” A mob of ninth-graders attacked me
from behind. Before I could scream for
help, every balloon on my entire body was popped. I stood there in shambles.
Shredded Saran Wrap pitifully hung from my tiny body. Fighting back tears, I entered the office and
asked to use the phone so I could call my mom.
The Vice Principal asked what happened.
Like a complete idiot, I told him.
I get it ok! I obviously was not
well-versed in School-Yard Rules. The
boys, of course, got in trouble. Thus began the humiliating, frustrating and
painful year I call seventh grade.
Whenever I recount the Jellybean Massacre of 1988, people laugh. I laugh. It is a funny, albeit, somewhat sad chain of events. There is a part in all of us that can relate to that little girl. You might not understand being emotionally, physically, and what would now days be considered, sexually bullied like she was that year. However, I bet you have felt humiliation, isolation, loneliness, disrespect, rejection, disappointment, and/or fear. Adversity is common to each of us individually and all of us collectively. It is just packaged differently for each individual's journey.
I wish I could say that was the last time I was forced to survey the shambles of my life. It wasn’t. As I matured, the popped balloons and shredded Saran Wrap came in the form of broken hearts, fertility issues, financial set-backs, deaths of loved ones, and divorce. During times of trial we get to choose how the story ends. We can either let it break us or strengthen us. It was through the pain I learned the social rules of junior high. Through the trials of life I am learning the lessons of eternity. While they are painful experiences I would never want to relive, they have provided perspective I wouldn’t have received any other way. And they certainly make for a good story.
