Passing Notes in Middle School

There is a shoe box on the top shelf in my daughter’s closet. There are no shoes in it. It contains tiny folded up pieces of paper. Passed notes from Middle school. Those folded up scraps of loose leaf chronicle the life and thoughts of a young teenage girl. It is a diary of sorts.

The only time I ever got into real hot water as a sixth grader was when I passed a note to Lizzy Frei and it was intercepted by the teacher. What I had written was a not-so-stellar review of the teacher’s shortcomings. I had in fact used colorful words to describe him—words routinely bleeped out by the FCC until very recently. I used language that was not deemed acceptable in Catholic school-- particularly in 1972.

And while I was obligated to tell my mother and have her speak directly with the teacher—my typically uncool mother was surprisingly cool about it. She placated the teacher. She apologized for my bad behavior. And she reassured the teacher that I would receive appropriate consequences at home.  But on the way to the car after the little conference she was seemingly not annoyed—she told me not to worry about it—but not to do it again.

Nowadays, texting is the new note passing. Kids no longer need worry about a paper trail. No one will find a dropped note and read it. And a note need not travel from desk to desk as it journeys from one side of the classroom to the other. Communication is swift and accurate. And notifications can be sent out in multiples.

But nothing is perfect. There is still risk involved. Texts can be forwarded to the wrong people either by design or accident. And of course cell phones can be confiscated.

And the fact that there is no longer a paper trail means that there no longer is a  paper trail—there is no written record of thoughts or daily events. So the texting generation will have nothing to look back on—like my daughter can. They will not recall who liked who or why the social studies teacher was so annoying. They will forget friends on the fringe and recalled sleepovers and birthday parties with Doug the DJ. Shopping memories of newly purchased shell-toed Adidas sneakers for the middle school dance will not be reported—neither will the pl-eather pants. Personal histories will disappear with nonchalance. A quick delete and it is gone forever.

And I am not certain but calling a teacher the male progeny of a female canine is likely a not-so-awful offence anymore—even in Catholic school. When I think of it now—it seems pretty laughable---part of it goes to my nature then and now—someone who does not mince words—I like who I like and I do not like people who cross me. And part of it is because of my choice of words—they were all wrong. I could have used better adjectives. That teacher was not so much a female dog’s male offspring as much as he was a 4 letter nickname for Richard—or the verb used when one pierces the skin with a needle.