The Retrospect Project, 2: Hunter Harris's Story

For a little background on The Retrospect Project, read this.

To read the introduction to today's author and his story, go here.

Without further ado...Hunter Harris's hilarious retrospective moment, which I'd like to call...

"The Boy with the Green Hair"

"I’ll be honest—I was not the coolest kid in middle school. In seventh grade, I was 6’4”, and I weighed barely 170 pounds. Needless to say, I was already fairly noticeable. Add large-frame glasses to that equation, and you have a unique combination of nerd. As a gangly, awkward being, I desperately needed an opportunity to put forward the “correct” image that my classmates (namely the girls) could appreciate.

See that kiddo with the goofy grin? Yeah, that would be him.

I had two musical inspirations for my new look. First, boy bands were still popular, though they were starting to decline. Now, I did not personally care for them, but girls loved them. I noted that they especially appreciated the blonde band members like Justin Timberlake, Nick Carter, and Lance Bass (in hindsight, how ironic). 

Backpacks, lunchboxes, and t-shirts with various quartets dominated the hallways. The boys knew that we had to at least pretend to appreciate the boy band genre if we were going to stand as sensitive, caring guys. 

Secondly, Eminem had just released The Marshall Mathers LP. If Eminem is popular now, he was almost god-like in the early 2000s. You had 0 street cred unless you could rap “The Way I Am” or “The Real Slim Shady.” Considering I went to a middle school that had an African American population that equaled upwards of eighty percent, Eminem gave the “white boys” a chance to be cool. I reveled in the opportunity. I had white t-shirts and black, baggy jeans, but I just couldn’t yet pay proper homage. 

As a brunette, I knew that Mother Nature had not blessed me with golden locks at that age, so, like millions of people each year, I planned to bleach my hair. Unfortunately, I had a mother with enough sense to forbid me to do something so ridiculous (I eventually wore her down next year, but that’s an entirely different, ridiculous story). Without the courage to disobey her or the finances to purchase blonde hair dye, I was left with very little opportunity to improve my lot in life. “Fortunately” for me, I was a fairly resourceful kid. I remembered that my brother and I had been given sidewalk chalk the previous Christmas.

Per my logic, yellow sidewalk chalk was just a slight downgrade from peroxide. Without testing how the chalk looked in my hair, I scraped the chalk all over my scalp before strutting to the school bus. Had my bus driver not been so apathetic that he actually looked at the students that rode his bus, my expressionist journey might have ended there. Also, my family lived in a rural area, so I was the oldest student to ride the bus, thus making me automatically cool to the elementary kids. With both of these factors in my favor, I felt like a king by the time we pulled onto campus. 

To make the story a bit more concise, I’ll just say that my hair was a huge hit—just not in the way I expected. When my peers saw my hair during our pre-class congregation, they did not become instantly jealous or attracted, as I hoped. No, they laughed. Uncontrollably. Our assistant principal (thank God for small mercies), hearing the cackling of my friends, found me, and quickly escorted me to the boys’ bathroom. I knew I only had one option to save myself from detention—head dunking. Left alone to my shameful enterprise, I noticed my hair for the first time in the mirror above one of the sinks. Instead of the crisp, golden base I expected, my hair was closer to a lime-green hue. 

Instead of Eminem or Mr. Timberlake, I looked more akin to Joey Fatone. Joey was not cool; Joey was never cool. If the shame wasn’t enough, I had to go to the rest of my classes with the helmet that grows from my wet, unbrushed hair. 

I learned that day that I was better off just accepting my own nerd-dom, rather than trying to cultivate a non-organic persona. Though it was a long road, I learned to appreciate my potential, rather than prop up my deficiencies. And, years later, I found friends, even potential dates, that could appreciate the nerd in me."

I really don't think I could have topped that story. And what a fantastic "moral." Do you have a story to share? If so, email it to Ms. P at bestinclassblog@gmail.com.

The Retrospect Project 1: Carrie M.

If you missed the introduction post for the The Retrospect Project* feature, please catch up here.

I am very pleased to have Mrs. Carrie for our first guest writer on the Retrospect Project. Allow me to introduce her, will you? 

This is Carrie toasting to the fact that she's no longer in middle school.

Carrie is a busy blogger. You can read more from her at The Life and Strife of a Military Wife and From the Mat Up, her yoga blog.

But more on the middle-school Carrie:

Me: Carrie, what CD or tape would we most likely find in your radio in middle school?

C: Regretfully, I must say 98 Degrees. I liked their muscles.

Me: Tell us a fashion trend you participated in wholeheartedly.

C: Sweater vests were cool for about a month.

Me: What was your go-to yearbook sign off?

C: Most likely a heart with my name underneath. The "i" dotted with a heart as well.

Me: Sum up your middle school experience in ONE word.

C: Distressing.

Now listen to her story. 'Cause she's a yogi.

See?

"Out of the 19 years of school, seventh grade had to be the worst year of my educational experience (not to mention, life). I was short, wore glasses, and had an older brother just one year ahead of me. I cannot tell you how many times I was called 'J.P.’s little sister' or told that I looked just like him (Thanks, you just told me I look like a 13 year old boy.) But even that wasn’t as bad as the embarrassment a 12 year old can feel when she falls flat on her face.

Gym class at CMS was dreaded, especially for me. I hated everything about it but one thing: Scooter Day. That’s right, one whole day devoted to riding these four-wheeled pieces of plastic that were only a few inches from the ground. Everyone loved scooter day, and everyone wanted to be first to gym class to get the best scooter. My friends and I had a pact: Whoever got to class first would get the rest equally as nice scooters. 

Gym class was located across campus, behind the high school. It was already intimidating enough walking through all the “big” kids, but my friends had nominated me that day to be the scooter saver. I was honored that they would choose me, but wary because there was a huge crowd of HIGH SCHOOLERS that I would have to push through. However, I was a savvy seventh grader, so I decided to run on the ground beside the sidewalk and cross onto the sidewalk at the last minute to narrowly dodge anyone over the age of 14. It was brilliant! I couldn’t believe how possible I had made an impossible task.

After formulating my plan and noticing fellow classmates on their way to gym, I broke into a sprint. I ran with all my heart, and I actually think Vangelis’s “Chariots of Fire” was playing in the background. I visualized the best scooter and I knew it would be mine that day. Then, it was time for the crossover. I leaped with great faith, but instead of sticking my landing, my legs became tangled and I fell like a sack of potatoes. IN FRONT OF ALL THE HIGH SCHOOLERS! I was mortified and bleeding. 

I did the only thing I knew to do… I got back up and started running. But instead of getting my coveted scooter, I had to get my elbow and knee bandaged. No scooter that day, and my friends didn’t even care to check on me. It took weeks worth of Neosporin to get my wounds to heal and a hell of a lot more time to forget the incident. I still have the scars from that day, but as for those other hussies I called friends, they’re history."

We've got your back NOW, Carrie. (those trollops)

Watching my step,
Ms. P


*Originally called Blast from the Past

Poaching Snails

As a teacher, I receive boatload of Christmas presents from my students; however, each one is memorable in its own way. Perhaps because of it's practicality - dry erase markers, gallons of hand sanitizer, copy paper. Seriously, we teachers love this stuff. Perhaps because of its comedic value - anti-wrinkle cream (I'm 24, people.), deodorant, a bottle opener - yes, all actual gifts this year.

Oftentimes, the stand-out gifts make me wonder how my students describe me to their parents.

"Well, mom, my English teacher is an aging alcoholic with a body odor problem and an affinity for germ-killing substances."

Perfect.

My favorite gifts, oftentimes, are handmade by the students.  For instance, Mr. Potato Head wrote me a children's book for Christmas. It was entertaining, which was no surprise given his previous writing. So gather round, readers. It's STORY TIME!

The Lonely Cheetah by Mr. Potato Head

Story time's over as soon as it began kiddos, but feel free to continue the discussion of today's book for extra credit.

Possible discussion questions:

1) What text-to-self connections can you draw from The Lonely Cheetah?

2) Do you think The Lonely Cheetah is an allegory? If not, is it because you can't remember can an allegory is?

3) Do you think the cheetah's position as an outcast allowed him to live outside society's norms? If so, do you think that's why he perceived the poacher's flavor to be bacon-y? Elaborate.