Am I bad?

A shame-based identity

I recently had the opportunity to walk the halls of my old elementary school.

Despite everything appearing much smaller than I remembered, I was struck by how much of it had largely gone unchanged. The cracks in the overflow parking lot on which we played touch-football, the musty smell of the downstairs bathroom in which we made too many double entendres, the exquisite sanctuary architecture within which I danced interpretively to “Lord I Lift Your Name on High.” And the gymnasium — did I mention we won the Lutheran state basketball championship when I was in 8th grade?

Go Wildcats, indeed.

Disturbingly, too many bad memories flooded-in. Not that I had an overwhelmingly bad time there. I remember altogether enjoying my nine years there, having some fun friendships (the sleepovers til 4am, omg), and participating in lots of extracurriculars, including performing as Gandalf the Grey in the The Hobbit and moshing to “Smells Like Teen Spirit” during a middle school dance that I helped to organize.

During this recent visit to the school, now as an adult, whenever I made a turn, revisiting these now tiny spaces from my childhood, I mostly remembered getting in trouble.