A Glimpse Into My Memoir

Years ago, I started writing a memoir as a means to collect the memories I had left from my TBI, a method of healing past traumas, and a place to process my life experiences. Like most of my writing, it was a task I had started but stalled due to my fears and insecurities of judgement and ridicule. Albeit, I always wanted to write about the experiences of my life as a means of connecting; I know someone out there has similar stories to my own.

As my final year of teaching quickly approaches, it was not a better time for me to reflect why I started this journey in the first place. Putting fear and possible judgement aside, I present to you a small, unedited, incomplete snippet of what I have been working on. I hope you enjoy it. -MRJ

Ch. 3 Are There Good Times in Middle School? The Reasons I Became a Middle school Teacher

Middle school is a rough transitional period for nearly every preteen. I do not care if you went to middle school in 1984, 1994, 2004, or 2014; you walked in as one person, and walked out as someone completely different. For me, and from the memories that I do have, middle school was a traumatizing experience; until I stepped foot into my high school, then I realized that the middle school years were just a warm up to the marathon of hell. 

During my elementary school years, I lived at home with my grandparents, who lived directly across the street from my school. I was a JEM from Kinder to 5th grade. The majority of the students attended Johnnycake each year too, creating this unique, shared experience that we did not know would come to a screeching halt. During my elementary school years, early on, I would get asked if I was hispanic or Native American. Until my grandmother started working at my school, which was in the first grade; I then became known as Mrs. Rafinello’s granddaughter. My ethnic ambiguity has been a love/hate relationship for most of my life. As much as black girls loved telling me I wasn’t ‘black enough’ or asked why did I ‘talk white’, equally, I had white girls ask without hesitation what I was mixed with because I had ‘such good hair’ and a ‘nice tan.’ We can talk more about that later. Let’s get back to the topic at hand.

 For middle school, my area had 4 middle schools based on zoning. My legitimate zone was for Woodlawn Middle School. But my adults refused to let me go to the ‘bad’ school. Granted, Woodlawn did have a ‘bad’ reputation, but looking back on this decision as an adult, I know it was because it was a predominately black school. My mother opted to enroll me in Catonsville, the predominately white school. I can almost remember every emotion I felt on that first day at CMS. This was the first time in my educational journey that I didn’t have uniforms, I was responsible for doing my own hair (if I stayed with Lisa), had to take a school bus (opposed to walking 300 feet), and lost 75% of the kids I grew so familiar with.

Despite all the changes, and towering kids, I was able to make 2 friends on the first day. A high-energy red head named Samie, and another mixed girl with long-curly hair, named Sheila. 

Since I always loved school, inevitably I loved all my classes and teachers. However, there was one, pivotal moment during my time at CMS that I will never forget; the day one of my teachers told me I needed glasses. 

I had always been a straight A student, high performing, gifted and talented, highly proficient student, even with my speech impediment. But in 6th grade, was the first time I started to struggle with school content, particularly, math. My math class was located outside in a trailer. For the life of me, I wish I could remember my teacher's name, but I will never forget her face. She was a small, sweet lady. I enjoyed going to her class because I liked listening to the sound of her voice. Looking back, I am thankful for her voice, because without it, I am sure I would have missed out on the foundational of skills of math. One day, about 2 weeks into the school year, she pulled me to the side after class. She asked me, “Are you able to see the board?” “Yes ma’am.” I responded. I was, in fact, able to see the board. She looked at me and smiled. The conversation was over. The next day, we had new assigned seats. I thought this was weird because school had just started. I never had assigned seats change so early on. As she was placing us in our new seats, my seat was the first one, directly in the front of class. At the time, I was excited to have my favorite seat! Then, after class, she asked again, “Are you able to see the board?” “Yes ma’am,” I responded again. “Is it better than before?” I remember her asking. This time, I just looked at her and smiled. “I think you need glasses,” she calmly proclaimed. This was news to me, I had never needed glasses before. But I knew she was an adult, and I was taught to listen to adults. When the school bus dropped me off, I walked to Lisa’s apartment and waited for her to come home. The first thing I said when that door opened was, “I need glasses, my teacher told me.” “You don’t need no glasses,” Lisa firmly stated. “You have perfect vision.”

For the first month, I sat in the front of my classes, realizing for the first time that I may be squinting. So I did what any preteen with common sense did, I told my Grandmother. “Granny, my teacher told me I needed glasses and when I told my mom she said I had perfect vision.” Needless to say, I had glasses within the next 2 weeks. For the first time, I saw the world around me for what it truly was. My teacher grinned and stated how nice my glasses looked. I can not recall if any students made any comments about them, because at this point in my life, it did not matter. All I knew is that I had made 2 new friends, had an excellent teacher, and could actually see. Everything seemed to fall into place. The fear of being in a new place, with new people, and having new experiences quickly died off. I was navigating this whole middle school experience like a champ. Until Lisa dropped a bomb on us. 

“I bought a house, I am moving back to Pikesville,” Lisa told us. Ok, good for her. I love my grandparents house and the calmness that surrounds us when she is not over. Plus, I won’t have to split my time going from her house to their home anymore. Life truly couldn’t get any better. 

“You’re moving with me and Antonio, you’re going to PMS after the holidays,” is ingrained in my brain. Dumbfounded, yet still a child, I saw I had no choice. What did this all mean? Why would I have to go through these changes again? Why did I have to uproot my life and friends for her? Why would I have to go through these first day scaries all over again, but this time, with zero percent of the kids I knew? Not to mention, now I was sporting glasses too. 

Lisa did nothing to prepare me for such a major life event. There were no conversations about how I was feeling, strategies to cope with the change, nothing. I was thrown into the fire, like many things when it comes to her. To this day, I can not find the first day of PMS anywhere in my stored memories. All I know is that I walked into an environment that was predominately Jewish (which did not matter too much to me coming from a predominately white school), and these kids had known each other since they were in the wombs. These bonds were tighter than Victorian Era corsets. I am talking thick as thieves. I would barely survive this new jungle I was trapped in. 

However, despite the struggle of making friends while trying to find where I belonged and who I was as a person, there was always one constant during this time; my teachers. I went to school each day not to socialize and make friends, but to see my teachers and to learn. I had some of the most passionate, patient, and entertaining teachers during this time. My world history teacher, may he rest in peace, would dress up for certain lessons, my spanish teacher would make us latin foods and taught us how to dance the flamenco, my science teacher had us conducting real science experiments, and my orchestra teacher had the most passion of any teacher I had met so far. Growing up, I always knew I wanted to be a teacher. I would play school, assign homework, discipline my dolls since I can remember. But it was at this point I knew that I wanted to be a middle school teacher. Middle school was an awful, traumatic experience for me for many reasons, but if it weren’t for my teachers, I honestly would not be who I am today. I absorbed, mimicked, and appreciated all of my teachers. But I knew, when I became an educator, I would be one who was helping kids like me; find themselves in the midst of change, being the positive and enthusiastic energy that was needed as we silently struggled with depression we did not even know we had, and that gave us the confidence that tomorrow would be a better day. I knew I wanted to make lessons fun, engaging and memorable. I knew I would dress up like Mr. Stewart. Play music and dance like Ms. Doddo. Be as passionate as Ms. Hodkinson. Be as chill as Mr. McGuinness. Be as silly as Mr. Hanford. And be as encouraging as Mr. Hegmann. 

So, are there good times in middle school? If it were strictly up to the students, then no. But luckily, we had adults that made it their job.

To note to my fellow educators: it may not seem like it today, but you truly are making a difference in a Childs life. Your impact is bigger than you may realize. Your words and actions matter. Education is more than a career. Stay strong, stay loving, and stay passionate 💜

Guess who discovered contacts by the end of 8th grade. And to my young readers, I have always been a hoop girl. It's a lifestyle.

Thank you to all of my teachers who showed up for us.