The brisk cold of the December breeze surrounded me, my feet rooted in the dirt speckled snow covering the concrete ground beneath me. It had been a week since I transferred into P.S.41, and currently my fellow third graders were enjoying their half hour of recess every elementary schooler longed for. My eyes pan across the courtyard, taking in the scene around me. The stomps of feet, giggles and screams of children, the smack of basketballs on the blacktop courts and squeak of the swingset behind me fill my ears. Sound comes from every corner of the yard, except from the spot I am located in. Though not visible to the eye, a bubble surrounds me, one that shields me from the burning questions and piercing stares of curious classmates. The bubble has yet to serve its true purpose, but it will eventually. Once the flashing neon sign that says “NEW KID HERE” is gone (it usually took a few months), the bubble would become opaque and I would simply become the quiet girl who didn’t raise her hand in class and didn’t speak during group activities.
In my attempts to find a safe corner of the court yard, one where my bubble and I could exist peacefully away from the loudness that existed on the courts and playground, I spot a bench placed next to a large tree. Beneath the bare branches sat a mousy girl, whose brown hair seemed to act as a shield.
What drew me to this girl wasn’t the odd way she curled into herself, hunched over not because she had bad posture rather to make herself smaller, or the way her eyes stayed glued to the pebbles she kicked around - these methods of attention avoidance were tried and true on my part - rather the slight reflection I spotted above her. It wasn’t visible to the eyes of others, but to me it glowed. She was surrounded by a bubble, one that resembled mine.
Perhaps my exhaustion with being the perpetual new kid was what pried my feet up from the snow, or maybe it was the thought of having someone who understood me, someone to sit with at lunch that didn’t mind drawing comics or reading in silence or thinking of all the possible ways we could get out of the school in the case of a real fire - (our most imaginative escape plan involved pulling a Mary Poppins and flying down from the roof using umbrellas) - that pushed me to walk over to her.
I approached the bench carefully, as if creeping towards her as if she were a real mouse, one I did not want to scare away. Timidly, I asked “Do you mind if I sit?” The girl raised her head, seemingly surprised anyone approached her, and responded with a quiet “I don’t mind.” It was in that moment, when I sat next to her on that concrete bench covered with branches and melting snow that our bubbles merged. It didn’t burst with my newfound courage, simply changed, morphed into no longer an impenetrable force that shielded me from others, rather a symbol of my quiet nature.
The girl and I became inseparable, and our friendship was one of my longer lasting ones. What was especially important about our relationship was that it was mine. Most of my closer friends through the years had been made through my mother, or sister, or even other friends. I had never truly made a friend simply because I wanted to, because we liked the same things and enjoyed the same activities.
Now, my bubble still exists, however it does not deter me in the way it used to. I have found ways to connect with people who differ from me and I’ve learned to love the things I love loudly. My bubble is no longer opaque; it is translucent and glows and is a part of me. I didn’t have to pop it to grow and open myself up to other people, rather learn how to love my bubble and find people who love it too.
If that seven year old girl who found it in her to find a fellow ‘girl in the bubble’ to share her passions and personality with knew who she had become, I’d like to imagine she’d be proud.
Personal Essay
This was a nonfiction personal essay I wrote for my own creative expression. It was somewhat inspired by Joan Didion’s style of writing personal essays.