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I had a high school flashback today and it made me want to just curl up and die.
For the most part, I liked high school. Being at school meant I didn't have to be at home where my parents were going through a shitty divorce and their second childhoods. Being at school meant I could be a typical teenager instead of a responsible adult. School and sleep were my two great escapes at the time. (This, however, does not mean I will automatically be attending my ten year reunion this summer...I still live in town with most of these people...if they wanna see me, they know where I live.)
But the one part of high school I dreaded was Honors English (I know, as a fat girl it should have been gym, but I KICKED ASS at floor hockey and we got to roller skate and Evans didn't care if I slept while I waited for my turn to hit a golf ball, so it all worked out). Independent grammar study was fine. I liked vocab because it was a great game trying to work the new words into conversations with unsuspecting people. I couldn't have asked for a better boot camp when it came to writing papers.
But then there was literature. I never felt stupider than we were reading the classics (I failed harmonic functions in pre-calc and didn't even come close to feeling as dumb). On one hand, I got what I read. And on the other hand, I didn't. It's hard to explain. I understood everything I read, managed to understand most of the themes, but never to the extent I was supposed to. It seemed like everyone else got it right off and I was sitting there looking around like, "huh"?
I think that's the reason why I read more non-fiction than fiction (other than I also read non-fiction because I like to learn stuff) and why my fiction tastes neatly skirt the classics. I don't think I'm smart enough to read them. And even though I clearly know I'm not being graded on it, I still can't shake that feeling.
I can watch Jaws and still go in the water. I can watch Psycho and have no trouble taking a shower. I can't figure out the significance of the deep green pool and I'm scarred for life.
Welcome to my house of horrors.
For the most part, I liked high school. Being at school meant I didn't have to be at home where my parents were going through a shitty divorce and their second childhoods. Being at school meant I could be a typical teenager instead of a responsible adult. School and sleep were my two great escapes at the time. (This, however, does not mean I will automatically be attending my ten year reunion this summer...I still live in town with most of these people...if they wanna see me, they know where I live.)
But the one part of high school I dreaded was Honors English (I know, as a fat girl it should have been gym, but I KICKED ASS at floor hockey and we got to roller skate and Evans didn't care if I slept while I waited for my turn to hit a golf ball, so it all worked out). Independent grammar study was fine. I liked vocab because it was a great game trying to work the new words into conversations with unsuspecting people. I couldn't have asked for a better boot camp when it came to writing papers.
But then there was literature. I never felt stupider than we were reading the classics (I failed harmonic functions in pre-calc and didn't even come close to feeling as dumb). On one hand, I got what I read. And on the other hand, I didn't. It's hard to explain. I understood everything I read, managed to understand most of the themes, but never to the extent I was supposed to. It seemed like everyone else got it right off and I was sitting there looking around like, "huh"?
I think that's the reason why I read more non-fiction than fiction (other than I also read non-fiction because I like to learn stuff) and why my fiction tastes neatly skirt the classics. I don't think I'm smart enough to read them. And even though I clearly know I'm not being graded on it, I still can't shake that feeling.
I can watch Jaws and still go in the water. I can watch Psycho and have no trouble taking a shower. I can't figure out the significance of the deep green pool and I'm scarred for life.
Welcome to my house of horrors.
