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The Fragile Emotional Economy of a Seventh Grader

I just took my son to school to speak with the principal (sp? Oh yes the principal is your pal). No seventh grader this side of Mars or Venus believes that the principal is his pal. Alex was terrified on the right of suddenly having become “visible” to the man who controls the school by striking fear into the hearts of small boys. Did I say small? That is the strange thing about middle school. I’m walking Alex in the door and, being in the south, and attempting to teach my son the behaviors of a gentleman, we held the door open for several young ladies. Three of the young ladies looked and sounded way too mature for 8th graders. I assume they were. Following closely upon their spiked heels were three first graders!!??? I’m not sure. They look as though they were weaned off their binkys just yesterday. Seriously, in two years of age differential there must have been two feet of height differential. It has got to be tough to be a middle schooler.

Back to the “pal” guy. On the left it has to be difficult for Alex because the principal wants him to “rat” on the teachers. Oh yes, we were in the office to complain, whine, I mean, express our slight alarm that the math teacher, by her own words, was not too interested in giving our children homework. The other alarming thing, something I didn’t tell the principal, was that she was going to teach my son, “maff” or “maph” not sure which. Now I realize that there is not necessarily a correlation between good diction, pronunciation and the ability to teach “maff”. But it is not exactly reassuring to a parent who wishes for their child to get the best education possible that public school has to offer. To ask my son to “rat” on his teachers to the “pal,” I believe breaks several cardinal rules of middle school etiquette. I believe that the unwritten rule of middle school rules for kids states quite clearly that it is deeply offensive to be a rat of any kind, but to “rat” on a teacher or student to the “pal,” is the deepest betrayal of all humanity, its like turning down an ice cream cone from your grandmother. Its like hating pepperoni pizza, its like backwashing in someone’s can of Mt Dew, its… its… unthinkable.

So how does my son navigate emotionally through these moral mountains that tower over him in middle school? How does he handle the fact that three boys in his class have been shaving since the first grade, and he still has a high voice? I remember so well those years with fear and gratefulness. Fear, as terrifying memories of Doug Phelps and Benito Ramirez threatened to drag me back into post dramatic stress disorder. I’m sweating just thinking about it. And gratefulness that I never ever have to go back to middle school again, ever.

Perhaps my son will be braver than I ever was and find his way through this strange middle school world which is worse than James Cameron’s Pandora. Go get em (sqeak) Go get em, Alex!!