My mom was an isolationist. Even though I didn’t know the term when I was little, I still felt the effects. No one was allowed inside the family home, and when I was old enough to have friends, I wasn’t permitted inside anyone else’s/

            When I was in college, I finally understood her reasoning. My family had moved while I was away at school. My dad ventured, almost daily, up and down the street, talking to anyone he found outside. This rankled my mom. She believed that the only reason people wanted to befriend either of my parents was so they’d have gossip material.

            So, back to when I was a kid. When we moved to a house in Dayton, a couple of little girls lived across the street. They played outside nearly every day, riding bikes, playing with dolls, or just sitting on the porch talking. I’d watch them through our front windows, yearning to be part of their group.

            When my mom finally grew tired of my whining, she let me go over to speak with them. The girls were hesitant to let me join in, but after they had a side conversation, they agreed. I told them I wasn’t allowed inside their house and that they couldn’t come in mine.

            They tormented me, teased me, belittled me, until after laughing about my supposedly torn shorts, I gave up on trying to be a part of their group.

            When I went to Kindergarten, I had no idea what to expect. My mom had told me I was stupid and so needed extra schooling (that my older, smarter brother didn’t need).

            It turned out she was right, for while I worked on preschool skills, my classmates were learning to sound out letters and to do basic math. When playground time came around, no one would play with me, so I made tracks in the sandbox, over and over, day after day.

            First grade my parents enrolled me in a Catholic school, a good long walk downhill in the morning, uphill in the afternoon. It didn’t take my teacher long to figure out that I was far behind my peers. My seat was changed to be in the first row, and I was assigned the lowest reading group, which was too advanced for me.

            Outside in the playground, my classmates called me all the expected names: retard, dummy, idiot and so forth. I walked the perimeter of the playground, day after day. Until one little girl joined me. We quickly became good friends. We’d walk together, and eat our lunches sitting side-by-side on a bench.

            One morning when my mom was brushing my hair, I told her I wanted braids like my friend’s. She was willing, until I explained that they were all over her head, with cute plastic barrettes at the end of each.

            The next day at school, my friend didn’t play with me. I didn’t understand what had changed, and she wouldn’t tell me. She went off to her side of the playground, leaving me to my side.

            When I got home, I cried as I told my mom what had happened. She told me she’d called the principal and told her that I was not to have a “N….” as a friend.

            I went through the next several years without a friend, my eyes following the popular girls, wishing I was included. There were many reasons, in my mind, why I stood out. My uniforms were hand-me-downs, faded and baggy. I was painfully shy and if one of them did speak to me, I couldn’t answer. I was still at the bottom of my class, in the lowest reading group, which marked me as being stupid.

            One time, I think I was in fourth grade, I really had to use the restroom during recess. When I entered, the popular girls were in there. They laughed when they saw me. Once I was inside the stall, they made comments about how I smelled of urine, that all fat people smelled, that they could smell me even in the classroom.

            I leaned over and smelled my panties, but didn’t find an odor. I didn’t understand why they’d say such lies, but it hurt my feelings. I stayed in the stall, listening to their taunts, until the bell rang.

            That same year I got invited to a slumber party. I don’t know why as I wasn’t part of that group, or any group. My mom insisted I go. She drove me into downtown Dayton and bought me brand new pajamas and underwear. I knew we had little money and understood this would be a burden on the family.

            On the day of the party, I feigned illness, but my mom didn’t believe me and so made me go.

            The girls were already in the bedroom, gathered on the bed, looking at a magazine. They made me sit at the foot, far from them. They shared an article about how to tell if someone was a lesbian. I’d never heard that term before, so had no clue what they were talking about.

            One of the hints was hairy arms and legs. They examined mine and declared I was a lesbian. For the rest of the night, they treated me as if I had cuties. I begged to go home, and eventually the parent called mine. On the way home I was lectured about overreacting.

            Well, I wasn’t. The next day at school, those girls told everyone I was a lesbian. When in line, everyone gave me a wide berth. When eating lunch, no one would sit near me. I church, they’d leave a huge space in between us.

            Fortunately, I was “punished” by being sent to lunchtime detention. You’d think I would have been miserable, but sitting in the upstairs classroom with a kind sister who helped me with my schoolwork, turned out to be the medicine I needed.

            Because of her kind attention, I made slow but steady academic progress. For the rest of the school year, I climbed those stairs.

            I still kept an eye on the popular girls, dreaming of being one of them, despite knowing how cruelly they’d treated me.

            The next school year I transferred to the public middle school where I knew no one. Being thrust into this strange environment was terrifying. Just like I’d done all my life thus far, I sat by myself during recesses and lunch, worked alone even on those few times when the teacher assigned group work (no one wanted me in their group).

            I knew who the popular kids were in this school. It’s easy to spot them. They walk in groups with heads held high. They wear the nicest clothes, the most fashionable shoes and jackets, and speak and laugh loudly. They stare at the outcasts, point fingers, make rude comments and do anything that makes them feel better about themselves.

            By this time, as I entered high school, I gave up all dreams of being popular. I kept my head down, did my schoolwork, and found quiet places on the playground where no one could find me.

            Thanks to the kind sister back in the Catholic school, I was no longer behind academically. In fact, my grades were now the best in the class. When a math teacher needed someone to work a complex problem on the board, I was chosen.

            We moved to California after I completed my freshman year.

            I hoped that a new school, in a new state, would be the fresh start I needed on the road to popularity.

            It wasn’t. Nothing had changed except that I excelled academically. I completed high school with no friends.

In the play “Wicked” one of the songs is about being popular. Elphaba, who has been ostracized by her family and her classmates for being green, is assigned to share a room with the ditsy Galinda. Galinda decides to remake Elphaba in her image, guaranteeing popularity.

We know the end of the story, that it doesn’t work because nothing can change that Elphaba is green.

In my case, nothing could change the fact that I was shy, convinced that I was lacking in many ways, that despite my academic success that I was a failure. My parents reminded me of this whenever I was home from college.

As a teacher, I was well aware of how these groups form and how they close out anyone who doesn’t fit their definition of popularity. I tried to keep those divisions out of the classroom, but it takes constant monitoring which changes nothing.

We see it in our daily lives. The popular adults win elections despite not having a platform, they get the promotions even though others did the work. They are put in charge of committees and assign others to do the grunt work, but when the task is complete, they take credit.

Popular adults are invited to parties, to go to the theater, to go out for lunch, to join even more groups where their popularity is enhanced.

At my age I no longer to be one of the popular ones. I’ve learned how very shallow they are, how they value idol worship and ring-kissing about all else. How they only want sycophants around them, how they yearn for more and more accolades not caring who they hurt on the way up.

I wish there was a way to go back in time and show the little me that popularity is not a value to strive for. Imagine how different my life might have been!