Ninth grade. UGH.
Our last child just entered high school and stepped into that notorious rite of passage called ninth grade. Freshman class. Low man or woman on the totem pole in the social hierarchy of high school citizenship. It’s the place where heads are popped with class rings and wedgies are given with the authority and passion of a Shakespearian soliloquy quoted by my Freshman Literature teacher. Maybe I just dated myself. Hazing and bullying of this sort used to take place before parents started threatening school boards with legal action. Hazing and bullying is done much more subtly and much less innocently these days with the use of cell phones. Ninth grade was tough in my day, but it’s an even tougher walk in today’s world. We were better off before lawyers and helicopter parents got involved, but that’s a subject for a later time.
Ninth grade. It’s the place where kids anxiously shuffle between hallways looking for English Literature or Algebra class in the pre-ordained days before Labor Day. They begin to find themselves as they jockey for position socially or athletically. They begin to discover and hone talents. They learn about love and the heartbreaks given or received.
A long time ago in a galaxy far, far away, the year was 1985. I decided to jockey for my own social position and ask one of the pretty girls in our school to hang out with me at the school dance. After all, my girlfriend had given me the exit interview just a couple of months earlier and I needed to plug myself back into the social pipeline. I mustered up every bit of courage I could gather, and I began the conversation with her cool as a cucumber. As my luck would have it, a yellow jacket landed in my armpit as I was propped up on the fence. Right when I got to the moment of truth and asked, I stood up straight and put my arm down. I cannot begin to describe the intense surging of the napalm death that was burning beneath my arm. Not only did she turn me down, I had to stand there and smile and nod as I acknowledged she had another suitor.
“I understand. He’s a great guy.” I replied using every ounce of my inner chi to disguise my pain. Not pain of rejection mind you. My armpit was ON FIRE.
I turned and walked around the corner so that I could release my torturer. I raised my arm and a limp, struggling yellow jacket fell to the ground. I had the privilege of walking around the remainder of the day with my swelling armpit flopping around. Have you ever tried to run a 400 meter at the afternoon track practice with a flopping armpit? I have. It ain’t pretty.
But before the running began, there were more academic matters to be settled. Advanced Algebra right after lunch break. “2x + 3y – c ,” asked my inquisitive Algebra teacher.
“X equals a steamy, floppy, stinging pit,” I half-heartedly answered.
“What did you say?” Mrs. Tucker didn’t get it. I had to break it down in detail.
The class howled with laughter when I described the reason for my answer and how well my dance proposal went. The teacher struggled to hide her emotions as well. Advanced Algebra is hard enough when things are going your way, but even harder with bulging pit swelling. Come on, now.
These are the kind of things that happen in ninth grade. 2022 is a long way from 1985, but some things stay the same. The nervousness. The awkwardness. The hormones. The uncertainty. The courage it takes to ask a girl out or the character it takes for a girl to let a guy down gently. Especially when he’s been brutalized by a yellow jacket.
As a parent you worry about high school and all the changes ninth grade brings. I hope it’s going to be a great year.
I watched my ninth grade girl at the ballgame Friday night. She and her classmates went to the student section to cheer, but they sat on the back rows. Front rows are reserved for juniors and seniors. They were loud. They were singing. They were yelling for their boys on the field and yelling insults at the visiting boys from the other team. They were smiling. They were doing what high school kids do at Friday night football games.
I watched. I smiled, too. Memories. I have hope and I think It’s going to be alright after all. We can hope the year will be as fantastic as her excitement and smiling face last night.
Hope like that is a grand thing. It’s amazing to see it on a ninth grader’s face as she begins to find her way into football Friday night. The hope and wonder of what could be. Or the hope of what needs to be.
Hope. Where’s yours? It’s easy to lose hope in your job or in simply watching the evening news. It’s easy to lose hope if someone has mistreated you or if you face daily adversity. In fact, many in the world today have no hope at all.
Maybe you aren’t in the ninth grade, but you might feel out of place or that something just isn’t right in your life. Perhaps you have nervous feelings considering the uncertainty of these unpredictable times we live in. Is this you?
So, where’s your hope?
Let me tell you about a Hope greater than a football game or a group of teenagers anticipating life. Psalm 147 reminds us, “The Lord delights in those who fear Him and who put their hope in His unfailing love.”
Now there’s a solid Hope that we don’t have to feel awkward or uncertain over. It’s way better than the ninth grade, and you don’t have to endure the pain of a yellow jacket sting or high school Algebra to find it. Just pray and ask Him for it. He will delight in you. Even more than a parent watching their ninth grader cheer and smile.
