A Pencil or a Pen?

John sat alone by the monkey bars. He watched the other 8th graders laughing and running around the playground. They were playing tag. Knockout. Four square.

That wasn’t for him. None of it felt like… him. “I’m my own man,” he thought to himself, and no sooner had he said than a mild wave of insecurity rippled through him.Everyone around him always told him to “open up.” He always “needed” to do something—needed to be more social, to be more exciting, to be less boring, to be more like so-and-so. He was sick of it.  As a fourteen-year-old boy, he was already jaded… years ahead of my time, he thought to himself proudly.

Why do other people have to define normal for me? Why can’t I just be who I am?

In the midst of his train of thought, a young girl approached him. He liked her. Her name was Sarah, and she was pretty. Whenever he could, he would try to sit near her in class. He wouldn’t talk much—he didn’t feel he had to live life in a forced way, always pushing himself outside of his comfort zone like everyone pressured him to. If she talked to him, he talked to her back. He was just grateful for her company.

“John, there you go getting lost in your head! Come on, we’re playing tag. You’re it!” She playfully poked his shoulder and ran off. While she ran the other way, she turned around. Just as she expected, John was still there. Still sitting alone. Still thinking. Saddened, she went back to her friends.

“What a loser,” Monica said. The other girls agreed quickly. Sarah didn’t agree, but she was afraid to say anything. She was afraid to stand up for John, as much as she liked him.  

High school days came sooner than John ever expected. He had to leave behind his favorite spot sitting by the monkey bars on the playground. For years, when he sat by the monkey bars, he would mark them with a pencil. Not enough to be noticed. But enough so he knew. That was his spot. That was where he could be who he really is. And so, in honor of his previous decision, he sat down his first day of freshman year by the high school monkey bars, on his own, and made a small pencil mark on one of the poles.

Basketball games, volleyball tournaments, and chess games were on. High school brought with it a variety of activities that didn’t really appeal to him, and social situations that made him feel awkward. But worst of all, high school had forced an ugly thing on him.

Group. Projects.

Ughh, he thought to himself as he looked through his class list and his syllabi. All of his classes had group projects—ALL of them. And in most cases, they accounted for half of his grade.

“I’m not going to do them,” he decidedly said to himself. Sometimes he surprised himself with his own candor and decisiveness. In middle school, he was known for being stubborn, but ultimately going with the flow when things got uncomfortable. Yet, now in his young teens, his stubbornness had cemented into an iron will. It’s not that he needed to be the big man or to prove something. He craved a chance to be himself, wherever and whenever possible.

On November 1st, the first group project was due.. John was assigned to a group, but deliberately contributed nothing. During the in-class work days, he discreetly doodled, tossing in a word or two for sake of discussion when the teacher walked by and observed their dialogue. He was supposed to be ready to present on November 1st with his group, and he was. Only one small thing had changed, no doubt against the teacher’s wishes. John would present alone.

John had agreed with Laura, Spencer, Josh, and Blake that they would split. The other four didn’t like John much anyway. John wasn’t buying this “group project” stuff. That wasn’t for him.

“John, I’m ready for your group now,” Mrs. Blanco said on presentation day.

John walked up as confidently as he could to the front. He knew he would be presenting alone. But the rest of the class didn’t expect it. John calmly put on his PowerPoint and began presenting.

“John,” Mrs. Blanco interjected, “I don’t mean to interrupt, but I had four others written down on your team. Laura? Spencer?” Mrs. Blanco asked with uncertainty, turning to the class.  

“Mrs. Blanco, I decided to do my project on my own. I felt it would be best that way,” John admitted, ready to display the information he had gathered on the French Revolution.

The teacher let out an exasperated sigh, her nostrils tensing slightly. The class could tell she was trying her best not to lose her temper.

“Fine, John, but I need to see you after class,” she said firmly. “Please go on.”

John went on to give an extraordinary presentation. The entire class sat in stunned silence as he masterfully explained “Liberty! Equality! Fraternity!” and its significance to the upheaval in France. He examined the great moments of the Revolution—how “let them eat cake” was a remarkably immature and careless assessment of the difficulties of French peasants. How the storming of the Bastille was one of the awesome displays of human independence and yearning for freedom. The class applauded him with great respect after he was finished. Even Mrs. Blanco herself was impressed—and she was not one to give out gold stars to just anyone.

When everyone had left the room, John stayed and was ready to meet with Mrs. Blanco. He didn’t like meetings like this. He didn’t like confrontation. He wasn’t doing something for attention or thumbing his nose at the school board. He just wanted to be himself. And he didn’t see why he needed to be forced to work with others if he didn’t want to. Others don’t stand up for me, John thought, but I can at least stand up for myself.

“John… I’m shocked that you didn’t tell me ahead of time that you wouldn’t work with your group. That was very

disrespectful.”

John hung his head. “I’m sorry, I think I could have done this better.”

“I’m going to call your mother and I would like to have a brief touch-base with her about this,” Mrs. Blanco said as she dialed Mrs. Indie. John’s mother picked up almost instantly, no doubt recognizing the school’s number.

“Mrs. Blanco? Is this you?” John’s mother sounded deeply concerned.

“Yes, Mrs. Indie, this is she. I kept John after class, and I wanted to bring something to your attention.”

Anxiety rippled through John’s body by this point. He had a hard time catching a full breath, but he tried his best to appear collected. He kept looking down… he couldn’t help it. Oh man, when I get home… he thought.

Mrs. Blanco had already begun explaining her disappointment and frustration with John. He hadn’t told her his plans. He hadn’t asked if it’s okay. He completely went above the guidelines of the institution.

“That all being said,” Mrs. Blanco slowed down, took a deep breath, and smiled at John. “Your son just gave the finest presentation I’ve ever heard in my twenty years as a teacher.”

He almost fell from his chair in shock.

“I actually can understand where your son is coming from,” Mrs. Blanco continued. “I really did not like group projects in school at all. In fact, I don’t know anyone in my own high school who liked them. We all just did them because we had to. We simply didn’t have the courage to try something different.”

“I think he could have approached this in a better way,” Mrs. Blanco continued, “but I’m so very proud of your son.”

Mrs. Blanco walked John to the principal’s office, and although he was admonished to be more communicative and transparent, both of them respected John. The high school changed its rule on group projects. There was an exemption added—as long as a student had a strong enough ability to perform the project on his own and was driven enough to follow it to completion, group projects were not necessary to graduate.

There was no special treatment for John—he was merely one student who was willing to try something different. In the years to come, John would realize that perhaps he lacked some tact and might have embarrassed his teacher. But he never regretted challenging the status quo.

He made his way outside. School was over, and no one was on the playground. He sat down at his usual spot—the one he had chosen the first day of his freshman year.  

Taking out a pen, he drew a short line on the monkey bar, just above where he had drawn a pencil line the first day of his freshman year. He walked away chuckling, clutching an ink-filled symbol of his freedom.