The Secret Life of an Object-Silver Bloggers Chronicles Prompt #10

The picture at the top of this page shows a Spanish medal, but this blog isn't about that metal. It's about a young girl who was so stubborn she would sabotage herself just to prove a point. I was that young girl, and I am still stubborn. Yesterday my sister-in-law said that her husband, my brother, and I would never die because we were just too stubborn.

A few days ago I wrote a blog about how I had moved from the country to the city and how I found the change to be jarring. That move took place when I was in the sixth grade. I went through three schools that year. By the time I settled in my last school I was disengaged. I sat in the back of the classroom, in a corner, next to the class bookcase. I spent the year not listening to the teacher, but instead reading those books. I don't think the teacher wanted another student, especially a student with issues. He let me read. I would open a book on my lap, and read while everyone else worked.

Academics were not an issue for me. Not only was I a good reader and could catch up easily, but my country school had actually been tougher than the city school. My lessons in the country were about a year ahead of my city class. This worked fine for all my lessons...except Spanish.

Spanish was a new creature for me. The year was half over when I started, and we used to watch lessons on a television that was located in front of the room. I was severely short sighted. Up to that point in my life I had never owned a pair of glasses, so I'm not sure how much I got out of the Spanish lessons. It was the only subject in which I received a 'Needs Improvement' rating.

I stayed at that school through the ninth grade. I remained disengaged most of the time. If I liked a teacher, I would pay attention. If I didn't, I would ignore what was going on.

For the seventh through ninth grades I was placed in the school band class, not because I had musical talent but because the administrators wanted to put me in an academically challenging environment. With all the reading, I had done really well on my standardized tests. The problem with the band class was, I didn't like the teacher.

Sometime in the first few months I lost the mouthpiece to my clarinet. It took me a few weeks to buy a new one. During those weeks I noticed the teacher had definite favorites, especially those who were taking private lessons.

When I bought my mouthpiece I took it to school and played for the teacher. He was not encouraging. That was it. I never played for him again, never played in class.

The teacher wasn't sure what to do with me. At the end of the year I was asked if I wanted to drop out of the band class. Emphatically, no. This was my class. I liked being in a special class. So I stayed, the only non-playing member of the class.

The class did eventually become a band. We would travel around to other schools. I would go on the trips, but wouldn't play. It wasn't that I didn't like the clarinet. I loved that instrument. I used to take it home and torture my neighbors as I played out tunes by ear. My favorites were "Summertime" and "When the Saints Come Marching in". I just wouldn't let that man hear me, and judge me.

My sister-in-law was right. Stubborn.

Fortunately, in the ninth grade I loved my home room teacher and she loved me. I had her for English as well, and of course I was an excellent English student because I was such an avid reader.

I blossomed in the ninth grade, but by then my MO in school was established. I had never truly assimilated with my classmates or the school culture. Although my average was in the high 90s, I remained pretty much an outsider.

_{My graduation dress. I was posing with a girl who lived across the street. She was graduating from the same school that year. The graduation dress was made for me by my cousin, who was a professional seamstress. Note the puffy hairdos. It was 1962, after all, and we were barely out of the 50s.}

When the end of the year came everyone knew there were going to be medals awarded. With my well-earned position of low regard, I expected I would get no medals, no matter how well I did. Then my Spanish teacher announced that the Spanish medal would be awarded on the basis of a test.

A test! An objective measure. I knew I had a chance if I was objectively judged, if personalities and preferences were removed from the equation.

I took my Spanish book home and studied. I studied and studied. I memorized everything. Memorizing was easy for me.

We took the test, and I was confident. Sure enough, I got 100 on that test. The teacher announced it was the first time anyone ever got 100 in the history of the Spanish medal test.

There was a hitch, though. I spelled the names wrong. I hadn't studied names. I didn't care about names. Fortunately for me, the Spanish teacher was best friends with my home room teacher. He made a decision: names don't count.

One of my classmates, the daughter of the school head guidance counselor, complained. This student was gobbling up all the medals. But my Spanish teacher held firm. Names don't count.

So, that's the story of my Spanish medal. It wasn't just a medal. It marked a turning point in my life. When I graduated from that school, I left the neighborhood. I left all those people behind. I left behind the poor assimilation, the band class, the judgement.

_{That's me, third row back, black hair, pony tail, playing the clarinet in my high school orchestra.}

In my new school, the orchestra teacher was astonished by the ease with which I played. Of course I was fluent, because I'd been playing at home for three years. The principal called me down and told me my average was so high I would be a school officer. In my mind, it all started with the Spanish medal.

Was I still stubborn? Of course I was. But I never disengaged again. I felt I was a part of the school. I not only joined the orchestra, I signed up to help out in the biology lab. I ran the school Junior Red Cross program. I was on the yearbook, the literary magazine and the Spanish (!) magazine.

Some teachers didn't like me, because I often declined to do homework, but I was a part, though perhaps an eccentric part, of the school.

I won't say my Spanish medal changed my life, but it was a landmark, a shiny brass token that announced the darkest days of my school career were over.