Dichotomy

                 I grew up knowing that there was something intrinsically wrong with me. I felt weird. I was awkward. I didn't quite click with people my own age. I was a liberal in rural Iowa. A feminist in a place where getting married before you’re thirty is still a goal. A sore thumb on a hand full of fingers that all worked in tandem while I clumsily tried to catch up.  I never felt a part of my school class. From kindergarten through senior year, I was always outside the circle. If the tiers of social involvement were actually ripples in a pond, I was the fly on the other side of the pond who  finally received information from the biggest ripple. Some of that was self-imposed. I spent high school fairly oblivious to my surroundings. I was angry for the first two years: my parents were newly divorced, I felt like my step-family had been forced on me, and I didn't feel like there was any place for me at home or at school. No place where I could be and being me was enough.  The other reason I was so disconnected was because I spent high school primarily taking classes with the kids who graduated a year before me. I hated school and I viewed it as a job. From kindergarten I knew that I wasn't cool, I wasn't pretty, I wasn't the one everyone wanted to take care of, and I wasn't funny in a way that my classmates understood. But, I was smart. That was made apparent to me and I clung to that with my whole heart. Maybe I didn't understand how these people worked and maybe I didn't have lots of friends, but I was smart and that was my role.

                I always had friends. I should make that clear. I was never bullied-though whether it was because no one tried or because I was just oblivious, I don’t know. It’s not like my classmates treated me like a pariah. I just didn't quite fit. The only thing I knew for sure was that I was The Smart One.  I read really fast, the teachers always put me in charge when they left the room, and I thought school was beneath me.  I made sure everyone knew it, too. Maybe that’s what started what I refer to as the years that were meant to “Fix Meleah”.  I remember lectures about how people don’t like someone who never smiles. They don’t like someone who tells everyone that they’re smarter than they are. They don’t like someone who is opinionated. I should have more than just one friend (which I did!). I should care more about how I looked: this one was really about telling me to lose weight and stop cutting my hair like a boy. It all reinforced to me that there was something wrong with me. It didn't matter if I was smart if people didn't like me. It didn’t matter if I was smart if I wasn't pretty. It didn't matter unless I fit the mold. And I still don’t.

                My junior and senior years of high school, I let go of a lot of my anger. I assimilated. My senior year of high school, I just wanted to have fun. It was the first time I had study halls-ever-and I had class for only three periods during the day. I became this zany, loud, outgoing senior who became buddies with all the freshmen. I got kicked out of one study hall for being too unruly. I started partying with my classmates and drinking like I saw on TV. I had a humor column in the school newspaper and I wrote the dumbest things. I wanted to leave a legacy. I didn't want everyone to remember Angry Meleah Who Thinks She’s Smarter than Everyone. I wanted them to remember Fun Meleah Who Makes People Laugh. The dichotomy of my first half and second half of my high school career is represented in my senior yearbook. I was voted Most Likely to Succeed and Class Clown. I tried to get my government teacher fired, but I also wanted to do something worthy of being sent to the office. Neither worked. It was an odd duality that I walked.

                My friend and I were comparing high school experiences: she had graduated from a Dubuque high school with 350 classmates and I graduated one of 49. I was class president, National Honor Society president, and editor-in-chief of the school newspaper. My friend exclaimed, “I’ve never been friends with someone who was popular!” But, I wasn't. I just existed. I ran unopposed for class offices all four years of high school because, frankly, who else was going to do it? That was my role. I was class president even though my decision making skills were shaky at best. I was editor-in-chief because I’d been in the class the longest. I think the NHS advisor may have skewed the vote in my favor because I voted for the other candidate. Popular people were voted homecoming king and queen. I wasn't popular. But my role was to be the smart one. The leader. So that’s what I did.

                My counselor in college said to me, “You don’t seem to know how you feel about your hometown.” That is completely true. My dichotomy still exists. I really enjoyed parts of where I grew up. I hated others. I’m so thankful that I grew up there and had the freedom to just be a kid and roam outside and revel in the knowledge that I was safe. I just don’t want to go back. I don’t fit there at all anymore. I don’t have a connection there anymore.  I've come full circle. I’m once again outside of the ripples in the pond. It’s cliché, but that chapter of my book of life has closed. That doesn't mean that I don’t cherish it. I’m just not that Meleah anymore.

                When I went to college, I found people who got me. I found people who had read the books I had read, understood the concepts I threw out, and who hadn't known me from Kindergarten. I went from having 48 people who were possible friends to thousands. I spent my first two years of college trying to replicate what had worked my senior year: drinking and being zany. But, the more I met other people who seemed to enjoy me for me, the more I realized that I’m a really good friend, the more I realized that I’m a weirdo and that actually works for me, the less I felt the need to put on that exterior and the more I could just be me. I no longer had to have two personalities. I don’t know if I would have been friends with the same people had we gone to a larger high school. I doubt it. I don’t know if I would have had the same role in school had I gone to a larger high school. Probably not. What I know for sure is that the people I surround myself with now are the ones I've chosen from a large group of people and I don’t feel intrinsically wrong anymore. I feel happy. I feel loved. I belong.