I learned how to become invisible in the 3rd grade. My parents had divorced each other for the 2nd time and my mother moved us from our small hometown to Pittsburgh just 3 days before the new school year school started.
I went from being a happy, secure and settled member of a large family and close-knit community to being the “new kid” – who had no friends, no family, had never been to Catholic School and had just moved here.
Before moving, I went to my small town public schools. Preschool was a 1/2 day in a rural housewife’s home. After that, kindergarten was a 1/2 day in the basement of the midtown elementary school. Then 1st and 2nd grade were in the 4 room Arlington Street Schoolhouse. Every kid I knew in town followed the same path and attended the same schools. School was fun. I was top in my class. I could walk to my Aunt Essie’s for lunch. We had recess twice a day where we went outside and played. I knew everyone who lived every house on my street and my Aunt Essie’s and Grandma’s street.
We had Sunday dinners at Grandma’s house and sometimes I’d have it at Essie’s with her brothers. Holidays were a bonanza, with visits and treats and presents from 5 different family households plus drop ins from cousins and extended family members from all around the region.
It was a wonderful childhood.
Then my mother decided to move to Pittsburgh.
St. Anselm’s Catholic School was unlike anything I’d ever experienced. It was oppressive. We had to wear uniforms! Pleated skirt jumpers for the girls and light colored “collared shirts” and dress pants for the boys. We had use the same book bags purchased from the school store – clear plastic giant ziplock-like squares that had no straps or handles so that the teachers could see anything in our book bags. All of our books had to have book covers on them – made from cut up grocery store bags unless you could afford to buy preprinted book cover sheets.
The teachers were mean ladies and strict nuns. They valued obedience, silence and conformity above all else. We were constantly lectured on religion, morality and doing things “right”.
On my first day of third grade, the teacher said, “Everyone can write cursive, right? Raise your hand if you cannot.” Nobody raised their hand. There was no way I was raising mine. I sat there all day in a panic staring at the cursive letters above the chalkboard trying to write like that. It was awful. In 2nd grade, I was the smartest kid in class. I even took reading and Math with the 3rd graders back then! Now I felt like the dumbest.
When my teacher said it was time for recess, I breathed a sigh of relief. Finally, a break! I couldn’t’t wait to get outside in the fresh air and sunshine to unwind.
She made us line up on the linoleum floor two by two. To ensure maximum discomfort, she paired us up boy- girl. Boys on the right. Girls on the left. We were told to have exactly one empty square tile between us and two empty square tiles in front of us. We were not allowed to talk. She marched us down the hall where we stood in line at attention near the bathrooms. One by one, each of us was allowed to walk to the water fountain to get a quick drink, go to the bathroom, then get back at the end of the line – in proper order and spacing. We were not allowed to talk the entire time. No more than 1 child at a time was allowed in the bathroom.It was quite militaristic.
Then she marched us back to the classroom to continue class.
I thought to myself: What just happened? I thought we were going out for recess.
To my disappointment, that turned out to be Catholic School’s version of recess.
I went to my mom for help after my first day at school because I couldn’t write cursive. I was ashamed and embarrassed to be the “stupid” kid. I wanted to move back home to Tamaqua. My mom said she’d help me. She wrote a note to the teacher. When I gave the note to my teacher the next day she said, “Why didn’t you raise your hand?”
Then two things happened.
- She let me print my work for a while until I learned cursive.
- She gave me extra homework every day with writing assignments.
This was supposed to be help? Extra homework on top of the hours of homework we were already given every night?
I never asked my mom for help with anything again. I knew I had to solve my problems myself.
Thus began 3rd grade.
In time I made friends. I learned the “ropes” of Catholic School. I identified the bullies and figured out how to avoid them most of the time.
I made straight A’s – except for Handwriting which I never could get better than a B. I never talked in class and I avoided doing anything that would get me in trouble because I was terrified of the wrath of the nuns. I didn’t want to be smacked, paddled by the principle or embarrassed in front of the class.
I started to hang out on the edges:
- I was unobtrusive on the playground having out with my close friends and some of the outcasts, instead of with the “in crowd” which included the bullies.
- I’d go to the library after school to do my homework and read books for hours – safe from torment by my sister.
- I played “kill the man”, “king of the hill” and army with my friends who lived just a few doors away from me.
When things got heated or I got scared, I’d make myself scarce. I learned how to walk away, run away, slip away and avoid confrontation.
The bullies didn’t pick on me much. I pushed out a vibe that said, “You don’t want to mess with me. I’m a nobody. I’m not your competition or a threat. It’s not worth your time.”
By 4th grade, we couldn’t afford Catholic School tuition so I switched to public school where I thrived. I wore jeans and T-shirts everyday. I quickly became known as the “smart kid”. I lobbied for and was accepted into the Gifted Program.
I had men as teachers for the first time! They were tough graders but outstanding in teaching math and science. I made friends and really liked my teachers, my classes and my school. Except for gym, art and handwriting – where I sucked.
I thought I would finish 4th, 5th and 6th grade at this school and then move to Jr. High with all of my friends next.
Instead, we moved 10 miles away to the ghetto in February of my 6th grade year.
On Friday, I was the smart kid at school. The following Monday, I get on an overcrowded school bus with my sister. We knew nobody at all.
We were the new kids, once again.
We were the only white kids on the bus. The boys grabbed my sister’s ass as she walked all the way back trying to find someone who would slide over and give her a seat. I was a fat weakling who could do nothing to protect her.
At school, I took her to the principle’s office where my mother had said everything was arranged. Nothing had been arranged. They were not expecting us. They had no records and no information.
So I took care of it. As a 6th grader.
I got my sister and I enrolled in the right classes. I got our records transferred from our old schools. I got myself into the gifted program.
There must have been 600 kids in this school. And we knew no one.
And so, I made myself invisible.
- I learned where to catch the bus so we could get seats before all the rough kids got on.
- I hung out on the edges of the playground at lunch.
- I focused on academics, which made me less interesting of a target for the bullies who were always picking fights.
- I befriended the losers.
After 2.5 years in middle school, we moved again to a completely different neighborhood. Once again, I had to make all new friends. I was the “new kid” in high school but by this time I was used to it. Plus, as a freshman, many kids were new. It’s just that most of them came from one of two middle schools nearby. As opposed to me – the totally unknown new kid.
This time it didn’t matter.
I was already invisible. I had already made it my mission to become valedictorian back in 7th grade so I knew what to focus on.
When I got my totally messed up schedule of mainstream classes, I marched to the Principle’s office and got switched into the gifted program.
Bullies in high school scared the crap out of me. Some of these kids were huge – like football linebackers and basketball players. Many of the kids were violent and good fighters. We had ghetto kids, white trash and lower class poor kids.
We had cops who patrolled the hallways and did nothing as far as I could ever tell except flirt with the girls.
Occasionally there were fights. These could turn into brawls with packs of kids ganging up on someone.
At the end of the school year, we usually had some kind of white kids vs. black kids fighting (calling them riots would be exaggerating).
I never got in a fight in school. I was invisible.
After mastering the art of making my invisible, I discovered I had another power – I could make myself visible when it was important to me.
I became valedictorian. I got scholarships and awards. I made good friends, had girlfriends and enjoyed my success in high school.
I met my future wife and worked up the courage to ask her out.
In time, I worked my way up from college dropout to bike messenger to warehouse worker to salesman to vice president.
I went from being terrified of public speaking to speaking in front of groups ranging from 3 to 200 people.
Today, I am only invisible when I intentionally want to be. I don’t have to hide from anyone.
Sometimes, it’s better to not be noticed as the nail that sticks up. When that’s the case, I can easily use my cloak of invisibility to fit in or even disappear. Most of the time, I am content to be seen this way. Examples are: driving in traffic 5 miles above the limit, dealing with government agencies, waiting in line, etc.
On other, less common occasions, I do the opposite – like when predators are scoping out potential victims.
When I lived in Florida in 2017, there was a spree of armed robbery and carjacking at grocery stores in my neighborhood. This was repeated during the Christmas season. At times like these, I stayed on high alert. I paid attention to my surroundings. My head was “on a swivel”. I walked tall and confidently. I was never distracted looking at my cell phone. I didn’t wear headphones. And I was never threatened.
Another time when I was living on the road, I had just left the bathroom of a deserted rest stop in middle of nowhere in New Mexico. A grungy, sketchy dude approached me to ask about my camper. Something felt wrong. My spidey senses were tingling. He had that crack addict/meth head twitchiness about him. So I bucked up aggressively. Head up, chest out. Tall, strong, alert and powerful. My hand went to the knife on my belt.
I answered his questions from a distance as I held up my hand to ward off further inquiries and strode quickly back to my truck, got in and drove off.
I have no doubt he would’ve either tried to hustle, coerce or steal from me had I not taken that posture.