Smart as a Mouse
The day I found out I was in “dumb kid math,” I was at a summer pool party with friends from my soccer team. Asking about each other's classes, one wondered if they had gotten into Mr. Doose’s 8th-grade advanced algebra class. I had known about that class, and I knew I probably wouldn’t get into it. At this pool party, a young girl turned, saw my face, and asked, “You’re in dumb kid math?” Math hadn’t been my strong suit in middle school; I always averaged out to C’s and occasional D’s, and I hadn’t felt ashamed. Not until this very moment did I think that this meant the upcoming year would be rough. What’s one year without my friends? What I didn’t know was that there wasn't a way out. I would be in “dumb kid math” forever. While I got better at math, my pool-party-born hatred for the subject had faded, but the label hadn’t. Over the next few years, there would be no more bad grades. I would have to learn the material, and I would do it alone. While I now get A’s in my regular math classes, I still feel the shame of sitting in my 8th-grade class, tears on my paper, telling my mom about my failure. Now, of course, I feel no particular way; after all, I was a middle schooler in a pandemic, where school was just a thing to get through, like the cookie part of an Oreo. I prayed that one day I would be magically placed into the advanced class, but that wasn’t in the cards. The last time I heard “dumb kid math” was about 6 months ago. My old boyfriend sprang the words on me just as I had thought it didn't bother me anymore; they came back into my life like a cold sore, and they slapped me across the face. I didn’t tell him how his words had hurt me; I didn’t even ask him to stop saying them. Instead, I cried. I cried like the day I was told I shouldn't take advanced classes because they might ruin my GPA; I cried like the day I studied for 5 more hours than my friends, who still got 20 more questions right on our final; I cried like the time my mom was upset about an A- in Geometry.
I arrived at school at 7:45, my breakfast in hand. My friend pulled up next to me. “Here we go again,” I thought. As soon as she stepped out of the car, she asked, “Did you study?” Referring to the preACT we were to take at 8:15, she asked a question I didn’t think was frankly any of her business. “Nope,” I say blandly, “Hey, that’s ok. I mean, it’s just a pre-test anyway, not the real one or anything.” She tries to tell me like it’s something I hadn’t figured out myself. We approached the doors, and I let out a sigh, entering the classroom I hated so much. Over the next 4 hours, I sit still on a desk designed for a zombie or a small animal that doesn't move much, but surely not a human. Gripping my hair, tears take over my eyes, invading them. I reread the questions as if the answers would magically come to me the second time over. The timer ticks like a big giant truth bomb I wasn't ready for; I was going to fail this test. I decided once the science portion came around that the test wasn’t a big deal and that planning out my next week's outfits suddenly was. When the test was over, I went back to my car and prayed I got any questions right at all.
Sitting in a classroom might be one of the hardest things that no one talks about. I remember the day I sat in MSU Bio, a class I never should have taken. I wouldn’t have taken it if it weren't for my friends, the overachievers. I didn’t want to be in a class all alone once again, but now I would sit staring at the people around me as my teacher lectured us on evolution. “This will be on your next test; you should listen up,” he says. I lift my chin off my elbow, ripping the glue that kept them together, also known as my neck strain from the bad sleep I got the night before. Staring at my teacher, I tried to hear what he was saying, but all that was processing was the phrase, “Pay attention, this is important.” The words ran through my head like It was less of a brain and more of a circuit board. For a moment I wonder if I was wired wrong or something. I drowned out his voice with my own. I looked around at my peers around me, the ones with A’s in the class and 4.0 grade point averages. It was like he was speaking a whole other language that I wasn't fluent in, but somehow everyone else was? The more and more I listened, the worse of a position I found myself in. Left and right, my friends talked about how they aced their tests while I studied for hours only to get a measly “B-.” All I hear around me is about a hundred “What did you get?”—a” phrase that made me wish I was a tiny little mouse hiding in a corner. I mean, a mouse doesn’t have to worry about schoolwork, a mouse doesn’t compare scores with his friends, and a mouse certainly wouldn't let his academic abilities define his worth. A mouse wouldn’t have to worry about school.
Hi, my name is Nevaeh Rezmerski. I am a junior in high school, and I wrote this piece as a way to express my frustrations with the pressures of being a student in a society of judgment. I usually don't write creative nonfiction, but my passion for the topic made it very enjoyable.