High School Pushover No More: The Power of the Polo Shirt
By ALEXANDRA OLIVA OCT. 22, 2016, The New York Times
A. In a sweet, dumb voice, I asked, “Can I see your ID?”
B. THE smirk flashed across my former classmate’s face as she walked in and saw me behind the cash register wearing my maroon cap and name tag. She whispered something to her equally tall and slender friend, then greeted me in a way she hadn’t since we were little: as if we were friends. Then she asked for a pack of cigarettes.
C. She didn’t need to work a summer job; her father owned a business. The nights I spent working, she was probably off partying at some fabulous place, the kind of house that I had helped my dad paint during other summers.
D. It was the summer before my senior year of high school. This was my first job: sweeping floors and scooping ice cream at the convenience store that was also my hometown’s gas station. A. and I had gone to kindergarten together. So I knew she was underage, and she knew I knew. Standing there in her skimpy tank top, she was betting I wouldn’t cause a scene.
E. Uncertainty flashed across A.’s face. She mumbled something about leaving her license in the car, then turned and ran with her friend out of the store. As I stood there watching A. leave, I felt the triumph of a pushover finally refusing to fall.
F. It was a pretty safe bet. I’d always been a quiet kid, consistently described by both peers and teachers as “good” and “nice.” But all this really meant was that I followed directions well, rarely spoke my mind and almost never stood up for myself. Not that I was bullied, but my memories are full of my being too shy to raise my hand, too scared to take a chance.
G. Now, as an adult, I recognize that it’s unlikely that A. was as comfortable in the world as I thought she was. She must have been going through her own hard times and troubles. But all I cared about then was that she was thin, gorgeous and rich.
H. It never occurred to me that maybe she smoked because it provided her with the same comfort I tried to find in food. No, I felt no empathy for this stunning girl standing across the counter. Instead I felt the weight of my unflattering uniform. I felt their shared aura of superiority.
I. I’d also ballooned from a normal-size child to borderline obese. So at 17, I was both painfully shy and insecure. It was impossible for me to look at someone like A. without hating the ease with which she moved through the world.
J. In the end, it came down to this: I did not care if A. smoked, but I didn’t want to be used. Fortunately, I had the backing of my hat and name tag and matching polo shirt. Sure, this was a just a summer job, but even so, I was in my workplace. I had power here. This context allowed me to find the courage that so often failed me in social settings.
