Thacher uses an email client called FirstClass. It's popular among private schools and businesses alike mostly because it's a fairly effective way of uniting a group of people over cyberspace, oftentimes in ways that take infinitely more effort otherwise. We have an online kiosk, club folders, discussion groups, a convenient directory with all the students and faculty, and only a vague recollection of those long-ago times where it was necessary to physically talk to someone to convey information. Instead of having to memorize and save countless addresses, or even worse, utilize those pesky vocal chords, a FirstClass user can just type in a name or premade group - "freshmen" or "seniors" or "Barbara Streisand" for instance - making communicating with peers and teachers amazingly simple.
With the school year approaching, my class has just been bumped up to Sophomores on the mailing list, a cause for great celebration. It was Graham who sent the email. "Just a quick question," it read. "Which class is this going to?"
When I registered what his email was asking and what my receiving it meant, I let out a joyous yelp and, since there was no one home at the time, set out telling everyone on my AIM buddy list. "I'm a sophomore!" I typed, albeit with more caps-lock and exclamation points and affectionate profanities, and my friends who were not older and therefore too cool to congratulate me joined in my festivities.
There are a lot of great things about being a Thacher sophomore; familiarity with the campus, no horse program requirement, built-in resistance to the ice cream machine, more course options... But these were not the ones I dwelled on.
"We get to be condescending and mean!" I told my friend Sienna, and it surprised me how much I must have been subconsciously waiting to defy my moral obligations towards human equality and become a bully. While we chatted happily about how she would go about harassing the freshmen who signed up to be in tech crew with her, a thought crossed my mind: "Isn't this a little sick?" my conscience asked me.
"Shut up," I said, and returned to Sienna. "So will it be like subtle mind games or flat out harassment?"
I realize now we were probably being a little over-zealous with our ploys. Sick as I may be, I don't know if I could ever justify any sort of genuine cruelty, and even if I could I don't think my peers would tolerate it. Yet you hear about this sort of thing all the time. In real life it all plays out a little more subtly than on TV, but no matter how nice a school is, there is always stigma associated with being in the youngest class. I've experienced it three times now, in primary, middle, and high school, and I still find myself at a loss to explain why it happens - why after a year of indirect isolation, a class is so willing to turn around and repeat the cycle. Is it carelessness? Insecurity? Immaturity? And better yet, does it ever stop?
The only time I handled the transition with any sort of maturity or grace was first grade, and I think that's because I didn't attempt to analyze the situation. It didn't occur to me why Dylan Smith and Maurice, two second graders I regarded with a combination of awe and jealousy, were unwilling to let me play cards or dig holes in the sandbox with them. I just knew it was mean and I didn't like it. After grappling with their disappointing rejection for a year, I entered first grade and finally had the opportunity to showcase the philosophy that they led me to develop: that all people are pretty much the same, and everyone should be nice to everyone.
I still think this.
Eventually, I wound up meeting a girl named Elena Goldstein. She was a year my junior and tended to get food all over her face whenever she ate and could play harmonica and was generally a charming person, all of which boded rather well for our friendship. We used to write comics together every day after school. Being older and having more developed motor skills, my art was a little better, but she had a sense of dedication I lacked and eventually produced at least ten serialized issues of her comic, "Burglar Bulldog." It was an impressive feat.
We fell out of touch around the time I moved away from San Francisco, but this isn't to say the friendship was insignificant. I almost feel a little guilty when I think about how my seven-year-old self might regard me now, plotting how to best harass incoming Thacher freshmen. She resides in the back of my mind and abuses me regularly about my day-to-day decisions.
"What's your problem?" she demands, never one to beat around the bush. "I mean really, what's your problem?"
"It's not that I'm going to be a condescending jerk because they're younger than me," I insist, but my excuses always seem flimsier when I say them aloud. "It's just because I'm genuinely cooler than them! I swear!"
"And how will you know you're cooler than them?"
"Well, you know..." I trail off, scratching the back of my head. "Because they're younger."
"You're a joke."
"Joke!" I exclaim angrily. "Hey now, I'm FIFTEEN AND THREE QUARTERS! You're SEVEN! So why don't you shut up and go play with your dolls or something, I don't have to listen to you."
What a piece of work is man!
With the school year approaching, my class has just been bumped up to Sophomores on the mailing list, a cause for great celebration. It was Graham who sent the email. "Just a quick question," it read. "Which class is this going to?"
When I registered what his email was asking and what my receiving it meant, I let out a joyous yelp and, since there was no one home at the time, set out telling everyone on my AIM buddy list. "I'm a sophomore!" I typed, albeit with more caps-lock and exclamation points and affectionate profanities, and my friends who were not older and therefore too cool to congratulate me joined in my festivities.
There are a lot of great things about being a Thacher sophomore; familiarity with the campus, no horse program requirement, built-in resistance to the ice cream machine, more course options... But these were not the ones I dwelled on.
"We get to be condescending and mean!" I told my friend Sienna, and it surprised me how much I must have been subconsciously waiting to defy my moral obligations towards human equality and become a bully. While we chatted happily about how she would go about harassing the freshmen who signed up to be in tech crew with her, a thought crossed my mind: "Isn't this a little sick?" my conscience asked me.
"Shut up," I said, and returned to Sienna. "So will it be like subtle mind games or flat out harassment?"
I realize now we were probably being a little over-zealous with our ploys. Sick as I may be, I don't know if I could ever justify any sort of genuine cruelty, and even if I could I don't think my peers would tolerate it. Yet you hear about this sort of thing all the time. In real life it all plays out a little more subtly than on TV, but no matter how nice a school is, there is always stigma associated with being in the youngest class. I've experienced it three times now, in primary, middle, and high school, and I still find myself at a loss to explain why it happens - why after a year of indirect isolation, a class is so willing to turn around and repeat the cycle. Is it carelessness? Insecurity? Immaturity? And better yet, does it ever stop?
The only time I handled the transition with any sort of maturity or grace was first grade, and I think that's because I didn't attempt to analyze the situation. It didn't occur to me why Dylan Smith and Maurice, two second graders I regarded with a combination of awe and jealousy, were unwilling to let me play cards or dig holes in the sandbox with them. I just knew it was mean and I didn't like it. After grappling with their disappointing rejection for a year, I entered first grade and finally had the opportunity to showcase the philosophy that they led me to develop: that all people are pretty much the same, and everyone should be nice to everyone.
I still think this.
Eventually, I wound up meeting a girl named Elena Goldstein. She was a year my junior and tended to get food all over her face whenever she ate and could play harmonica and was generally a charming person, all of which boded rather well for our friendship. We used to write comics together every day after school. Being older and having more developed motor skills, my art was a little better, but she had a sense of dedication I lacked and eventually produced at least ten serialized issues of her comic, "Burglar Bulldog." It was an impressive feat.
We fell out of touch around the time I moved away from San Francisco, but this isn't to say the friendship was insignificant. I almost feel a little guilty when I think about how my seven-year-old self might regard me now, plotting how to best harass incoming Thacher freshmen. She resides in the back of my mind and abuses me regularly about my day-to-day decisions.
"What's your problem?" she demands, never one to beat around the bush. "I mean really, what's your problem?"
"It's not that I'm going to be a condescending jerk because they're younger than me," I insist, but my excuses always seem flimsier when I say them aloud. "It's just because I'm genuinely cooler than them! I swear!"
"And how will you know you're cooler than them?"
"Well, you know..." I trail off, scratching the back of my head. "Because they're younger."
"You're a joke."
"Joke!" I exclaim angrily. "Hey now, I'm FIFTEEN AND THREE QUARTERS! You're SEVEN! So why don't you shut up and go play with your dolls or something, I don't have to listen to you."
What a piece of work is man!
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