I think the first girl I ever loved was in fourth grade. There had been another girl when I was in second grade, but she didn’t really notice me, and what I had felt for that one was more intrigue than affection. But the fourth grader – her name was Karla – we connected.
This was back when I lived in Acworth, a tiny rural town so small it had a two room schoolhouse for the first five grades – grades one through three in one room with one teacher, grades four through five in the other room. My family had moved to Acworth between grades three and four, so I knew no one. The teacher was a nice enough man, Mr. Nelsen – he taught us, read stories to us, and played chess with me while the other kids were at recess.
The desk setup was a little unusual – each desk was double wide and sat two students at it, with a single wide tray underneath for books and such. And beautiful Karla was my deskmate.
I was smitten with her – don’t tell me ten-year-olds don’t have those feelings, I sure did – but I had no idea how to show it. I wasn’t going to pull her hair or push her down the way young boys do to girls in stories. And at that age I was ill-equipped to profess anything to her – and I’m sure she was ill-equipped to process anything I would have chosen to share.
Honestly, I’m not sure forty years later I’ve learned all that much about how to tell the opposite sex you like her, but at least back then I had a good excuse.
So instead of anything dramatic, I made it a point to be utterly considerate towards her. I made a point of making sure I treated my deskmate with every ounce of respect and deference I could muster. I kept my school things in the tray underneath scooched way over to my side to not interfere with her space. I behaved courteously towards Karla at all times. At one point she even declared that I must be the nicest boy there – and my heart did swell.
Who knows what could have happened, but it didn’t. At the end of fourth grade, her family moved, and I never saw her again. That was my second real loss.
The first, in case you’re wondering, was in second grade, back in Jaffrey, when we were waiting for the bus. It was a summery day, and the girl I mentioned before – I don’t recall her name – was doing cartwheels, and everyone was watching. Either because they didn’t like that I was watching or because it was just an easy way to show off, a couple of the older, bigger boys decided to push me around and pummel me. I was mortified, but didn’t show it – still, this first bullying experience made me feel like a little piece of me had been killed. I didn’t like it.
Of course, I would continue to face bullies wherever I went, which really only stopped around 11th grade, when even the bullies began to realize that they were about to have to face the real world. But until then, I tried to mostly stay out of their way – and I never showed fear or pain on my face. Most of the time I would try to laugh it off, like I thought they were including me in on the joke, and it was funny. When that wasn’t possible I withdrew – first mentally, then when I could, physically.
However, I fit the profile of victim too well to escape that kind of attention. Not only was I shy, even worse I was whip-smart, and bullies hate it when you’re much smarter than they are. At least until late high school, when being my friend meant possibly having a decent lab partner.
Fifth grade came and went without much fanfare, but sixth grade meant getting bussed to Alstead and the junior high there – it also meant kids from the surrounding towns – not just Acworth – would be there, expanding the class size dramatically. If the Acworth school had been a laid-back and experimental one, with a whiff of the hippie mentality still strong, the Alstead junior high was far more cosmopolitan – at least to me.
I actually resonated pretty deeply with this chapter