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JUNIOR HIGH SCHOOL (A Crime Against Humanity)

 


Let’s establish a universal truth: Junior High should be illegal.

In the 80s it was called Junior High.
Now they call it Middle School.
Same premise, same trauma.
Different hair products.

Honestly, no child should be forced to attend school during the exact years when:

  • your voice sounds like you’re possessed by a confused demonic pigeon

  • hair is appearing in places it absolutely did not send a calendar invite for

  • your height changes hourly like you’re doing puberty CrossFit

  • your social status swings wildly between “invisible” and “please stop noticing me”

It should NOT be wished upon your worst enemy.
Not even the kid who pasted you during dodgeball.

But now that I’ve slowed down enough to remember the years I tried desperately to block, here are the Top 10 Most Horrific / Hilarious Things I Remember About Junior High (circa 1984):

1. My first day at Attica.

I walked in straight from elementary school innocence, where my biggest scandal was not staying inside the lines.

Day one of Junior High?
Kids were kissing. Everywhere.

At the front of school.
Behind the school.
In the school.

I went from watching He-Man to watching hormonal children reenact Days of Our Lives.
My nervous system filed a formal complaint.

2. The Sorting Hat of Puberty.

Junior High sorts you into social tribes like some dark, off-brand version of Harry Potter:

  • Geeks

  • Athletes

  • Theatre Kids

  • Indie Music Kids who listened to bands with names like “Squirrel Panic” and “The Electric Pancakes”

  • The Trouble Kids who lived in denim jackets with Megadeth logos and permanent detentions

You didn’t choose your house.
Your haircut did.

3. Seventh-grade mustaches.

Actual mustaches.
On boys.
In middle school.

One kid had a full five o’clock shadow at twelve.
I’m 98% sure he had a side job and a mortgage.

4. Aquanet: The Silent Killer.

Girls’ hair in the 80s was less “hair” and more “architectural sculpture.”

Perms so high they needed their own zip code.
Bangs that could stop a small aircraft.

We single-handedly punched a hole in the ozone layer—
just my graduating class alone.

5. The classes got harder.

I didn’t have a huge crowd.
Mostly just the kid across the street.
Our friendship was built on Atari, fear, and avoiding eye contact.

6. The purple Sergio Valente jacket.

Enough said.

Honestly, enough said.
Let us never speak of it again.

7. “Squirrelly.”

My overbite + braces = new nickname I didn’t ask for.

Junior High is basically Shark Tank for cruelty.
Kids pitch insults.
Everyone invests.

8. The Bus Ride of Doom.

Every day, Kathy got on the bus and my heart did a full gymnastics routine.

Did I sit next to her?
Absolutely not.

Junior High courage is a myth.
Like Bigfoot.
Or stress-free gym class.

9. Grocery bag textbook covers.

We covered textbooks in brown grocery bags like we were preparing them for the Witness Protection Program.

Then decorated them like our lives depended on it.

I drew the Rush logo constantly.
Did I know any Rush songs?

Absolutely not.

But I thought it made me look mysterious.

(It did not.)

10. Sun-In: The Devil’s Highlight Kit.

Summer before 8th grade:
I sprayed Sun-In into my brown hair.

It turned…
orange.

Like a traffic cone.
Like Garfield.
Like a radioactive Cheeto.

I entered 8th grade looking like I lost a dare AND a bet.

I haven’t thought about Junior High in decades—
which, honestly, was probably a survival instinct.
My brain Marie Kondo’d those memories right out of my consciousness.

But remembering them now?
Weirdly…
beautiful.

Because those years, as cringe as they were, shaped something essential:

My humor.
My heart.
My ability to survive public humiliation without combusting.
My compassion for awkward, uncomfortable kids everywhere.

And eventually, they shaped the way I showed up in my first calling.
And now—
in this wild new chapter—
I’m starting to think Junior High didn’t break me.

It rooted me.

And maybe that’s the whole point: Even in our most awkward seasons, life is still nudging us — gently, persistently — toward who we’re meant to become. With orange hair, a purple jacket, and enough awkward resilience to last a lifetime.

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