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It seems like only yesterday, but oh, how times flies by. It was January of 1993, the beginning of my second semester of the third grade. How cruel are parents that make their children move into another school district after a semester… This thought lingered as I made my way into this new community, this new school, this new life.
The town was Rockwall. I had only been living there for two weeks when I learned of my new school arrangement. I do not remember what was in my delusional mind; however, I know I did not know I was to attend this new school.
Thus, I made my way into this strange building. The walls were white cinderblock, painted and smooth. Artwork, papers, and fliers were attached to them, each with the creator’s name written clearly and proudly on it. A line of students stood at the restrooms, around a strange apparatus I knew not of (I later discovered it was a sink very much unlike any other sink I had ever seen, a round basin with foot petals to control water-flow). Shyly I walked behind my mother and the principal, a tall, blonde man in a business suit; he was not an unkind man, but he held in his air a great amount of dignity.
They led me to a classroom, the place I would call mine by the end of the year. The principal knocked on the door. All eyes turned to it as the teacher went and opened it. 27 pairs of eyes were glued to me. The principal made the introductions, and I was shown to my seat. My mother left me there, nearly crying, in this room.
The morning was uneventful. Unenthusiastic, I sat in the far corner, trying to pay attention but struggling desperately. I came to realize this class was far behind mine at my old school, as we had already learned many of the things in the previous months. This mostly stemmed from being in the honors classes at my old school, then being placed in a regular class at this new one, because in these classes they did not have a gifted class all around. They had a program called ‘SAGE,’ but the school district did not test me for that class, and it was only once every six days anyway.
Recess came shortly thereafter. We all went into the p-gravel playground to play. All of the students ran out to their favorite haunts – the swings, the jungle gym, the monkey bars, the playhouse, and the large field where the boys played sports. I, however, stayed behind. None of the students noticed or recognized someone wasn’t playing. Everyone was with his or her respective friends, and no one had time to include the ‘new girl.’
Getting rejected did not bother me, however, because I did not wish to speak to these people anyway. They were snooty and rude. They would not loan me a pencil or a piece of paper. No one would switch with me to grade papers. And they certainly did not talk to me.
Rejected? I have been there. Isolated? I can tell a story. The truth is I have never truly adjusted to this system, and I have been here since the third grade. I do love Rockwall, and am very glad that I do not still attend the other school district I was in, but there is truly a caste system to Rockwall, Texas. Each person has his or her role in this – some are the aristocrats (the people everyone knows and loves, the stereotypical Head Cheerleader and Football Captain; student council), some are the knights (the rest of the football team, cheerleading squad, drill team, and all of the sports teams; the people everyone knows), some are the landowners (the rest of the clubs and groups), and the serfs (people that not many know, like myself). Do I have a problem with this? Not really. I suppose it all has to do with one’s point of view.
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