Jill Speaks: Oh Lord, Please Don’t Let Me Be Misunderstood

This is written by THE JILL mentioned in my previous blog post.

Yeah, sixth grade.

 It sucked. I hated my teacher, Mrs. Castrofalo, and she hated me right back. She must have been a hundred years old, too. 

 First off, who played this dumb joke on me, being adopted?  Two different subjects, I know, but are they really? It screwed up everything I did in school. I was that kid, too, with the Koss headphones sitting on my parents’ leopard pull-out couch in the paneled den. High Tide and Green Grass made the most sense to me. As Tears Go By.  Sixth grade did not. The Stones blasted into my brain cells, awakening them. Probably why I’m hard of hearing in my right ear. Then again, maybe it was the gazillion concerts I went to where you easily got the first row through Ticketron. Remember that? You had to wait in line at the crack of dawn for tickets, praying they wouldn’t sell out. The amps blew out my eardrums.  I was scared shit going back to high school the next day after an evening of front row Allman Bros. My hearing was fuzzy. Was I going deaf? GEEZUS. Adopted AND deaf?  I was at the end of my rope. 

Anyway, there I was in sixth grade with chub rub and seemingly sweet, but with a no-filter mouth that sucked everyone into a backdraft. I said what was on my mind, the truth, and I always got in trouble for it. My few good friends loved me a lot, but I felt different. I was different. I didn’t fit into Mrs. C’s student mold. I saw her look at me with disgust. Boobs were starting to bud and I was puffy.  I hated myself too. Who was I really? I wasn’t this skinny rock star, Long Island cutie, ever! I never got those sling-back shoes that Lauren B had. I wasn’t even enough for Mrs. C. to come over to my row and tell me that I’m worth something. (Side note: I became a teacher and modeled myself as the antithesis of that bitch.) She picked favorites early on and I was not one of them.  Not “chosen” this time. Mrs. C. had one of the super smart, Sheldon-type boys do her favors by putting our grades in her book.  What?  He was 12!  TWELVE!  It wasn’t right! At least I had common sense.  Big deal that Joel’s a doctor now.   

Being adopted causes so much havoc. My nakedness took the verbal form. I was really saying:  “ SEE ME, HEAR ME, TOUCH ME, FEEL ME!” Yeah, Tommy.   That’s all I wanted.  To be seen. 

“I’m just a soul whose intentions are good.”

Later,

Jill