Everybody has embarrassing moments from childhood. I’m not under any illusion that I’m unique. But for me, it feels like elementary school is where you first really discover what embarrassment is, and those early memories still land with that same hot, mortifying punch.
One of the earliest moments I can pinpoint was around 1981 or 1982, when I was in first, maybe second grade. My mom had told me this fact that apes and humans have the same number of hair follicles, and I’d only just learned the word “follicle.” Later, in class, the teacher asked us to share something about apes, and I confidently announced to the whole room that apes have the same number of “hair testicles” as humans. I can still see the teacher’s wide-eyed expression—totally bewildered, clearly fighting the urge to laugh—while I kept going on and on with my long explanation about “hair testicles.” She eventually moved on, and it wasn’t until later that day a kid came up and told me, “I think that means balls.” I stood my ground because he didn’t seem sure of himself, but I also had this sinking sense he was right. Somehow from that point on, I never mixed up “testicle” and “follicle” again.
Another elementary school humiliation came during this weather systems unit that felt like it dragged on forever. On the final test, there was an essay question: why is it hotter in summer? When the essays came back, the teacher went over the results and openly made fun of one student, telling the class, like it was the funniest thing in the world, that someone had written it’s hotter in summer because there is “nothing to do.” The whole class erupted laughing, and I remember being in tears laughing too, thinking, what kind of idiot would write that? Then I got my paper back and saw my own stupid scribbly handwriting, those exact stupid words, and it hit me all at once that I’d just been laughing at myself.
The next big one I remember was at a fourth-grade dance. There was a rumor going around that some boy was wearing a bra, and I got totally fixated on it—walking around, looking at everyone, asking who it was, like I couldn’t believe it. Then a kid came up to me and said, “Why are you wearing a bra?” I still don’t even know what it was about my white dress shirt that made anyone think that, but the realization that everyone was actually making fun of me—not some mysterious other kid—was another instant ton-of-bricks moment of pure mortification.
Finally: The coup de grâce. Junior High -- the most awkward and awful of all school periods. In seventh grade—my first year of junior high—I signed up for choir. I was guileless and didn't realize this was not a thing "cool" kids did. Our teacher was kind and classified technically soprano boys as "alto". We practiced all semester and the big moment was the final choir show. That final performance wasn’t just for one grade level. It was for everybody: the entire junior high packed in to watch us. We were arranged on the stage in the school auditorium on three risers, standing in that chorus semicircle, and I was all the way up on the top riser, up above everyone in the most visible spot.
We started singing, and I suddenly began to feel sick—really queasy—and I remember thinking, oh no, I hope I don’t barf. The song we were doing was called “Soar with Eagles,” and right when we hit the part where we sang, “Soar with Eagles!”, everything went sideways. From what I’m told—and from the bits I can sort of remember—I passed out and fell forward through the rows of kids in front of me. The next sensation I remember is what felt like carpet rubbing on my face. It was actually cement.
This all happened in front of the entire school. Somehow, miraculously, nothing was broken. There wasn’t even a scratch on my face. Afterward, kids came up asking if I was okay, and I played it off like it was no big deal. I also decided to never tell my parents it happened. I went home like normal. At dinner my mom asked how school was.
“Fine.”