I was already intimate with self-doubt by the time I read about the “impostor syndrome” where people (most often women) believe that they are not all that, the success and admiration—whatever that might be—they enjoy is because they have fooled others into believing in them. Men often over-estimate their appeal, their skill, their accomplishments, and their abilities. Women tend to underestimate themselves.
Yeah, I get that.
My own self-regard tends to fluctuate. It’s low at the moment.
A recent writing workshop raised the common wish to be popular. I don’t recall ever aspiring so high. I wanted to have a “best friend.” Of course I was jealous of kids who were popular—they had so many people to call friends, multiple people who would rather spend time with them. I wanted one.
Briefly, over the summer before 3rd grade I had two friends: Stefanie and Denise. Our mothers made us matching dresses for the first day of school. On that day, I discovered I was in Miss Wara’s room and my friends had been placed together in the other 3rd grade classroom. [I would discover decades later that my sense that Miss Wara disliked me was not entirely my imagination, which I believed at the time. My mother mentioned casually that parents had multiple conferences with her because they recognized the teacher disliked me.] It was a hard year for other reasons. The boy I had a crush on ridiculed me in front of the class and my friend Don punched me in the stomach, though I’d probably done something to deserve that. In 4th grade we began SRA (a timed reading program), which I loved and it was the year my dad began reteaching history to me, which was a good thing. In 5th grade, we were introduced to a brand new (to the US) system of numbers with rods of different lengths. I loved that too, but as I remember it, I wet my pants nearly every day that year. Sixth grade was wonderful. Mr. Finley taught us math and science and the other fifth grade teacher taught us history and English. I learned to do math in base 5, began pre-algebra, and devised an experiment to determine whether white cloud mountain fish could distinguish colors. [Probably not.] In 7th grade at Cordell Hull Junior High School, I had art every day, which was wonderful. The reading teacher needed a note before I was allowed to read The Once and Future King by T.H. White, because the copy I had was a paperback and she assumed all paperbacks were trashy books. I had the highest grades in class, which surprised everyone, including me when it was announced in Homeroom. We read Johnny Tremain, and I wrote the only piece of fiction before the age of 38 in that class. It was about Marie Antoinette struggling to face her coming execution. Denise and I were friends. But in 8th grade, Denise announced that she couldn’t afford to be seen talking to me anymore at school. Toni Burton moved into the district and became and remains a friend. I was part of a clique that year, the only period of my life where I had multiple good friends as a group. [In EdPsych I learned that cliquishness is typical of that age. “They should all be sent to an island until they become 9th graders,” was what the prof told us.]
In high school I mostly lost sight of Toni but was close to Rin. After high school, I drifted away from both of them, but made friends through the School of Art at the University of Washington. Sam Scott and Linda Beaumont in Fire Arts and Pamela Harlow and Kris Williams in the Metals wing. I reconnected with Madora Lawson whom I’d always admired from my Honors World History class in high school. She was doing Interior Design. Gary performed the legal wedding between Madora and Steve the night before the public one. I was a bridesmaid.
In the mean time, beginning the summer before my high school senior year, I met Gary in 1969 and found the one best friend who has lasted throughout all the years since.
