I don't believe I cared much for sixth grade.

I don’t believe I cared much for sixth grade.

I was already fully in the grips of a terrific identity crisis (mostly sexual) by the time I was rounding out my junior high years. At my school, sixth grade was the last grade on the junior high side. Seventh graders had to move around to the right side of the building, and that side was high school. They also had more than one teacher, and several different classrooms. That didn’t shock me nearly as much as when I was told they also had periods.

Even the boys.

I was terrified of high school.  And also very much ready to go there.

Because I did have perks, or I guess I should say, potential: I was the smartest kid in my class (again, third year in a row), I was a junior member of the high school tennis team, I was Vice-President of the Stamp Club (watch out), I was Chair of the Thanksgiving Play Selection Committee (a huge honor in the sixth grade, believe me – kids obsessed about it all during fifth grade), and also, I wanted to be a girl.

Ah, those golden days of adolescence.

I played several sports during this “pee wee” period. Football, track, basketball…of course, tennis – it was the only one that stuck. But, it was basketball that “most rang true the bell of my gender dysphoria.”

Every fall, the 4-6 grades would host a scrimmage of various sports. Spot games, pro-sets, two rounds, etc. etc. You know, just to get the kids on the court, field, and so forth, and to make the parents pay money to sit in the stands and pretend to care, all the while munching on a hot dog with a bag of chips. Hot dogs and bags of chips that you paid extra for.

Scrimmage, by god, was meant to raise money. Not awareness.

I did my 100 yard dash – 2nd place. I made it to the semis in tennis – suprising? I even scored half a touchdown – ask me later; but then…then, came basketball. First team to 20 “wins.”

My team didn’t win. That was ok. I was hardly devastated. Hell, after that afternoon, I was hardly standing. I was tired. Worn out. I was heading off the court when the prinicipal approached me and asked me if I thought I could play one more game of basketball.

I said Yes before I could think about it. But, at 12, really, what was there to think about. I could do another game, I was made of nothing but energy, even when worn out, even when asleep…but still.

He said, Great, thanks, head back to the benches on the court.

It was then that I noticed something wasn’t quite right.  All the other boys had left and were gone. And, now, only girls were taking the court. I knew that we separated scrimmage games. Boys played boys; girls played girls.

But, something wasn’t adding up, until right at the moment. I turned to look at the principal, knowing full well what he intended. He nodded, That’s right, I need you to play on the girl’s team. He walked up to me, Kris, now take it easy on them, let them score some points. And wait until I introduce you before you start.

I was mortified, scared, excited, Had my secret been told? How had it gotten out?

He introduced each one of the team members, as promised, over the loudspeaker, to much fanfare…until he got to my name. And then, over the intercom, I heard, “And next, taking the court in the position of Point Guard, Kris Kristy Lee!”

I had, of course, already stood up, and then – I died, right then. I had absolutely no recourse but to go on to the court and play basketball.  The crowd was in awe, and not of my playing ability or what, to some, might appear to be my sheer “hogging” of the sport of basketball, having to play every time anyone took to the courts. No, they, I like to think, were embarrassed with me, not for me.  That’s how heavy it felt, their awe.

But I don’t know, and I never will know, if that were the truth. When the game was over, I ran off the court, praising God that other family engagments had kept mine away. I was “sick” the next three days.

I doubt I ever would have come back to school except for two reasons. First, U.L. didn’t really think I was sick and was tired of indulging me. Secondly, the Thanksgiving Play had to be chosen and rehearsals begun.

That, alone, brought me back – my sense of duty to the craft of theatre. It’s saved my life many times since then.

If only it had gone better.

I’d chosen this lovely piece of dramatic writing that re-told the story of the birth of the American flag. I tried to be fair in my casting process; this being sixth grade we had no casting couch, and even if we had, that’s gross – girls have cooties, you know.  All my friends were eager to forgive the scrimmage scandal for the meatier roles, but I steered clear of such controversial casting by trying to give the best qualified the roles they deserved.

Sadly, this only gave me a quarter of the total cast, so I was, at the last, forced to give roles to James, Lee, Brian, and Megan. I knew then the mistake I was making, but felt powerless to stop it.

At the final hour, I gave myself the lead. It was the least I could do to ensure some small measure of success.

I would take on the role of Uncle Sam. I would even make his beard myself.

318 cotton balls later, I had a workable wig and mustachioed beard. It would come unglued midway through the opening monologue. I would not let it ruin the show, though.

That, we were to discover, would be left to Megan.

Megan, pretty as a picture, and about as smart as one, was playing Betsy Ross. Soon as the lights hit her coiffed Antoinette – why this is what she wore, I cannot say, but the poor thing, she forgot every single one of her lines, which shocked me if for no other reason than that she was sitting in a rocking chair, holding a flag, and a large needle – surely, she could have made something up on the spot that would’ve been remotely accurate. 

I was quiet as long as I could stand to be, but after what seemed like a thousand minutes, I realized that the play wasn’t going to perform itself, and so I flat-out told her, right there onstage, what her lines were. I have an uncanny ability to remember everyone else’s lines (though I can forget mine in a heartbeat). Her cousin, Brian, was livid. He was also onstage with us, in the role of Thomas Jefferson. And began to pinch my arm; he was standing beside me.

And that just made me angry and angrier, I mean all I was trying to do was help Betsy Ross, for crying out loud. So, holding my cotton-ball beard in hand, I turned around and told Brian that it wasn’t my fault Megan was ruining my show.     

My cheeks flushed red, deep as the stage curtains, and I heard only one noise from the audience: U.L. and his infamous, soft-bated but poignant gasp, that intake of air is as well-known as the Carol Burnett ear pull. I stormed off the stage, wordlessly.

Brian, just stared, struck dumb by the sudden imposition of having me leave the stage, all to him, while Megan, excuse me, Betsy Ross, sat in her rocking chair and cried…

…right on the American flag.

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