IN THE MIDDLE OF THE MIDDLE (by Robert Fulghum)
One day last week I drove past a middle school just as classes ended for the day. As the young trudged away from the school burdened by their bulging back packs, they seemed like a defeated army in retreat.
The raw recruits of the First Junior High Demolition Division, having lost another round in the Battle of the Brains, ravaged by hormones and hunger, were headed home to the trench warfare of family life.
A fleet of yellow busses was lined up in front of the school, with a cluster of students in front of each one waiting to board. Despite the sullen grimness of the general mood, and the ragged appearance of most of their uniform clothing, one small group was laughing while they waited, and another small group was singing as they boarded their bus.
As I watched them, I remembered . . .
Bobby Lee. Thirteen. Seventh Grade. West Junior High. Yellow Jackets. (Really, the school mascot was a wasp) Black and white and yellow.
Mrs. McClung. Algebra. Lucy. Jack. Coach.
Shall I sing the school song? I can.
Shall I tell you far more than you would ever want to know about that time in my life?
I can. But won’t.
How about the dark angel of puberty?
Remember that? Ohmygod . . .
And - (let’s use the least inflammatory words) - remember the transactions you had with your parents in those years?
I was a door slammer.
So were they – that’s how I learned the technique.
The image of the trudging young has stayed alive in my mind for days now.
I see them all over the world when I travel.
And every time I’ve mentioned the experience and asked adults if they remember middle school, the same thing happens:
They smile, roll their eyes a little, and laugh.
Then they will gladly tell me far more than I ever want to know about that time in their lives. They, too, can sing their school song.
It’s a powerful, provocative episode in growing up and on.
Thirteen and in the middle.
Technically a teenager, but half child, half young adult.
Have I made much progress since I was their age?
It’s not yet completely clear.
They have identity problems and wonder who they are.
And so do I.
They’re alarmed by the relentless drives and mysteries of sexuality.
So am I.
They’re worried about what’s happening to their bodies.
So am I.
They wonder why everybody doesn’t like them.
So do I.
They want to fit in and be exactly like everybody else, while at the same time they want to be seen as special and unique.
Me, too.
The person they know themselves to be on the inside is not the person the world thinks them to be from the outside, and they simultaneously want the world to see them as they really are - and never ever find out the truth.
So do I.
They don’t understand the opposite sex – or what opposite really means.
Neither do I.
And they feel caught in the middle between being a kid and being an adult.
So do I.
They wonder what will become of them when they grow up.
And so do I.
They wonder how and when and why they will die.
Me, too.
And the heaviest weight they bear is not their backpacks.
It’s the sense that their lives are in the hands of forces over which they have no conscious control: culture, custom, genes, hormones, the electro-chemical activity of their brains, sunspots, teachers, peers, the internet, and parents.
Me, too. (Having dead parents doesn’t take them out of your life.)
The only truly obvious difference I can see between the middle school scholars and me is that I don’t have a back pack.
I want one.
But if I put all my stuff in it, I couldn’t pick it up or carry it very far.
I have way more stuff now than I did when I was in middle school.
And my stuff now is just as important to me as their stuff is to them.
Nobody understands that – least of all me.
Once again the passing parade of 13-year olds comes to mind.
I wish I could tell them something that would make their burdens lighter.
What do I know now that I didn’t know then?
That the essential nature of being human will not change much over time?
You will always be caught somewhere in the middle between where you’ve been and where you’re going, between what you have and what you want.
It’s called Now - and it isn’t a place, it’s a condition.
Being alive is not a destination, it’s a place on a moving bus.
You will always have more questions than answers.
You will never get yourself or the world all figured out.
You will never ever really know what other people think about you.
You will never ever really understand what you think about yourself.
And -You are not as alone as you think, but it always seems that way.
You will always be in the middle.
Between the facts and confusions, between the joys and cruelties of life.
All this will weigh on your mind as long as you live.
Life will always be a load to carry.
But most of the time you can do it.
This is your life as it is, and there’s no place to go but on.
You’ll get used to it.
And will understand some day that you’re in middle school all the way to the end of your days.
That’s not bad news.
It’s just the way things are – for all of us.
One more thing:
Some who wait for the bus are laughers and singers.
Travel with those people whenever you can.