Private School Almanac

I still remember my first bible. The first time I held its cardboard-sealed cover and felt its paper thin pages between my fingers, it glowed within my hands like a methodical treasure. It was green and its sides were so thin that I could almost see my finger through the tissue paper pages. It was thick but at the same time felt weightless at the thought of its contents. As I held it between my fingers it felt like I was holding a book of secrets, one that was full of mystery and journeys that I had never known. 

I was twelve at the time and about to start my first year at Christian private school. I was terrified; terrified that I would get lost, terrified that I would look bad in a pleated skirt, terrified that I wouldn’t make any friends, but mostly terrified that they would discover my abominable secret that I wasn’t a christian and kick me out. As a result, the whole summer leading up to orientation I practiced saying “shoot” whenever I made a colossal mistake, in hopes of eliminating “Jesus Christ” from my swear vocabulary.

I soon discovered it wasn’t your religion they cared about but your money. Social classes were either defined by how big your house was or how pretty you were. Below the surface of the Christian private school stereotypes in renowned academics and profound opportunities was a world of suffocating uniforms and toxic perfection. 

My whole life I had gone to public school, with diverse kids and their diverse backgrounds. I had attended a middle school that prided itself on creativity and productivity, with colored classrooms and hand drawn decorations. After only one year at public middle school, in an attempt to push me academically, my parents sent me to the “school on the hill”, where I would soon find that classes can be quiet and hallways even quieter. 

As a tomboy who played softball and hated makeup, I immediately felt forgotten at private school. Everyone was either rich and gorgeous or a genius who didn’t have time to talk. To me, a required uniform that included pleated skirts and collared shirts was a jail cell. 

The first two weeks of private school I found myself sitting alone at a round table, surrounded by kids I was too scared to say hi too. I was shy and embarrassed to be myself. 

Although I was an undeclared and a very confused twelve year old, my favorite class was bible class. I saw it as an escape and a way for me to learn about something that was besides me. The class was inviting and smelled like a warm candle, its walls were covered with quotes like “I can do everything through Christ, who gives me strength” -Philippians 4:13. Learning about a higher power that was stronger and greater than I was made my fears outside the classroom fall away. 

Bible homework was unlike any homework as it took the thought of God into the home and often caused me to wonder from the task at hand. My parents didn’t want anything to do with the bible or the constant questions I had about God, so instead I often found myself secretly flipping through the pages underneath my covers. 

The power of these paper-thin papers made me want to create them and emulate the words I was reading. Since the bible seemed to help other people figure out the confusion in their lives, I thought that writing down my life would help me figure out mine. 

My second semester at private school I began journaling. Just like the bible, I felt the power of writing down my feelings and daily encounters. After each day I was able to read back my actions and ideas, and after each month reflect on their consequences. Journaling made my life simple, I began to break out of my shell realizing I could write my own life, my own pathway: quite literally. Journaling made private school not so scary anymore, and I began to take advantage of the open opportunities.

After journaling for three years I had realized the person that private school had made me--one that I didn’t respect. I began hating myself and treating others the way I felt I had been hurt. Although private school was good for me academically, through journaling, I discovered I wasn’t being a good friend or a good daughter.

A month before the end of my freshman year, my mom lost her job.

That day I wrote:

“My mom lost her job. She got fired. I was at practice when I noticed my mom in the car, usually she gets home on Fridays, I just thought she wanted to surprise us. I started balling as I hugged her, I felt so bad for her.” 

It was terrifying for my family and led me to think about leaving the life I had created the last three years. Her new job would force us to relocate and paying for private school didn’t make sense anymore.  As we moved, I turned my journal into a shield against the hurt of leaving behind a life. In the end I was able to escape the school that had changed me in ways that forced my creativity into one, 92 page journal.

 We moved to a new town where I didn’t know anyone and suddenly it was like deja vu except this time I could reinvent myself and no one knew me. They didn’t need to know that I came from private school or that I moved. I was the new girl again but this time I knew the ropes and was excited to make new friends.

I made my first friend in three hours. I walked the halls with 3000 diverse people and each day I saw a new face. There were no groups and no popularity scale. Once again I was at a school with colored classrooms and hand drawn doors, with creativity and ideas bursting from each door.  

Instead of running from my past I took my experience from private school and became a school ambassador, giving parent tours of the new school that gave me a fresh start. Aware of the mental health stigma in my generation, I immediately joined youth and government with no restriction to advocate for change within the education system. Running free without the trapped bubble, I ran into my community, creating a community outreach event to connect the youth with high schoolers, ridding the stigma of “scary” secondary school.  I stepped up as a team captain on my new softball team, relieved at the opportunity that was gained through skill and not money. Although private school was hard living through it, in the long run I would never be the person I am today.