When I Failed for the First Time and Didn't Know It

1,009 words

8 minute read

TW: Emotional abuse of a child

I'm in eighth grade.

I'm trying to keep quiet about school.  I can usually get Bs and the occasional A. (With the occasional C.)  But today, in Oral Communications class, we all found out how we did on our speeches that rely on visual aids.

I can't draw at all.  Charts and graphs are confusing.  Asking for help is asking to be mocked, so I don't even bother.

Oral Communications is a class about giving speeches, not about how well we can draw.  So I'd made the informed decision to give my speech without a visual aid.

Everyone else has a letter grade written beside their score.

Everyone but me.

"Girls, how did you do on your speeches today?"

Tara offers her grade reluctantly.

"Tonia?  What did you get?"

"I don't know," I admit.

And then I escape to my room as soon as possible.

***

I may not be sure of my letter grade in this situation, but I am sure that I'm in big trouble.  

My escape hasn't done what I hoped.

I've been followed.

And the conversation is still going on.

"You need to tell me what you got on your speech."

"I already told you, I don't know..." I repeat.

"Of course you know!  Stop playing games and tell me right now!"

"I don't know!  I'm telling the truth."

Patience is wearing thin, but I'm not acting clueless on purpose.  I really have no idea what to say. 

"Show me your grading sheet.  Let me see it!"

I hold off.  I stall as long as I can, but it's no use.  Eventually, I give in and dig around my backpack for the paper.

"Your grade is right here!"

"No, it's not.  I told you.  There's no grade there.  Just a number, so I don't know what I got." I protest.

"32 out of 50!  It says 32 out of 50 right there!  That's an F!  That's your grade!"

Oh.

Crap.

It all goes downhill from here.

My discomfort at the situation makes clear some "bad habits" I've developed -- an adult's words, not mine. My adult has honed in on these things and has told me - in no uncertain terms - that they are unacceptable.  I need to change.  ASAP.

[Tonia, unsmiling, in eighth grade]

Case in point:

While I'm being criticized, I cope by smiling.  Laughing.  Putting my hands up suddenly to cover my face.  I am told this "looks like you're about to barf!  You need to stop doing that!"

Also zeroed in on is my tendency to just...never make eye contact.  Because looking someone in the eye when they're yelling at you is nerve-wracking.  But it's something all adults in my world insist on.  Something I am told I also must change, going forward.

I'm eager to get out of this situation as soon as possible, so I say, a lot of "Okays" and "I knows" in hopes that I will be left alone.

I'm not.

Instead, one of my school notebooks is located -- along with one of my pencils.  I watch in disbelief and embarrassment as the words are written as a heading across the page:

Tonia's Change

1.  NO MORE BARF HANDS!!!!

(Beneath this, there are a few more sentences.  About what is expected instead?  About how unsightly my habit of covering my face is?  My memory won't give up those details.  But the formatting looked a lot like this.)

"Now, [the school guidance counselor] said you didn't look at her when she was talking to you.  That's really disrespectful."

(This visit has merged itself into one single awfully humiliating memory, where the counselor told me sternly: "Tonia, you need to LOOK at people when they're talking to you," with an obvious hand gesture.)

Now, the humiliation is only growing.

The writing continues:

2.  LOOK PEOPLE IN THE EYE WHEN THEY TALK TO YOU

(Again, this was followed by a few more sentences, but I can't tell you their content.  The first point and exactly how it was phrased is permanently stuck in my brain.  The rest is rather fuzzy.)

3.  

(There was definitely a third point on this list.  Or maybe it was just two things?  Like I said...all these years later, I'm not clear on specifics.  What I am clear on, is what happened next...)

Scotch tape is found.  The awful paper gets brought over by my bed.

"Now, I'm going to hang this right here."  The paper is secured the paper to the wall, right by the head of my bed - and in clear view for my little brothers, and any visiting family or friends to see.  "...So that you can see it and remember what you need to do."

"No..." I whine.  

"Yes!  You can't do these things when you grow up."

"I'm taking it down..." I say, rebellious for a moment.  (I won't really be forced to be embarrassed me like this.  I won't really be expected me to leave that up...will I?)

"You'd better not.  I'm going to be back, and I'd better see that still up or you're going to be in even more trouble."

And up it stayed.  For at least a year, until I moved bedrooms.  I had to explain it to friends.  To my younger cousin.  It was beyond humiliating.

Knowing that at least one adult came in our room often, I eventually rebelled as much as I dared, moving the offensive paper from the wall to the side of my desk, which faced my pillow, but not much else.

For a long time, I convinced myself that this was done out of care and concern.  It was the only way I could live with the ongoing humiliation.

These were hallmarks of abuse, trauma, and my then-unknown neurodivergence that someone didn't like seeing, so they humiliated me out of them.  

By ninth grade, I think, I forced myself to make eye contact, no matter how uncomfortable I felt.

And there were no more barf hands.

***

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