The hushed whispers still ring in my ears. The little ""pssttts"" of first graders, when multiplied by 30, can create an almost deafening roar. And it's even louder when the information is the hottest piece of gossip to hit the first grade since Billy's marriage proposal to Suzie was rejected.
""Mrs. Naperiela just gave Steven a demerit because he pulled down his pants in the bubbler line!""
""Did he show his...?"" was the usual response.
""Mhm!!!!!!!""
That was 16 years ago. Two days ago, Steven, the in-line-pants-puller-downer, friended me on Facebook. He's a business major, goes to UW-Whitewater and looks like he's having fun in a photo of him downing a beer while clutching two grossly tanned girls, his pants sagging dangerously low. I could only think of one thing: Why did he pull down his pants in line for the bubbler in first grade?
Reputations are tricky things. You have absolutely no control over their formation and, once formed, they are hard to shake. I'm sure the girl who lived on your floor freshman year—the one with the long-distance boyfriend whose fights were always just audible enough that you and your friends could eavesdrop—never wanted to be known as ""that girl who fights with her boyfriend from UW-Oshkosh.""
Graduation makes one think about reputation. Sure there's the usual fretting over jobs (I don't have one yet, I plan on being a mistress), leaving the comfort of Madison and wondering how little you need to be paid to qualify for food stamps, but there's also a little nagging voice wondering how you will be remembered.
I decided to ask some of my friends about my legacy. It wasn't pretty. A lot of ""I just always will picture you as that girl taking a Dole orange juice mixed with vodka out of her purse"" or ""someone who thinks her knowledge of trivia makes her better than others"" or ""awkward.""
I delved deeper.
""Caitlin, I'm sorry,"" my friend-since-first-grade Kate said. ""But I think I will forever think of you as that poor girl who scored a basket for the other team in fifth grade. And then had to be taken out because she cried.""
My mom tried to help: ""I think you're thought of as that smart, witty, pretty girl who has a lot going for her. Except a job.""
Bah, I huffily told myself. It doesn't really matter what other people think. Steven probably doesn't think of himself as the pants-puller-downer; Christopher from second grade probably never refers to himself as the boy who put Elmer's glue on his sandwiches; Melissa from eighth grade never sees herself only as the girl who farted after every sit-up during presidential fitness testing; and Kate from the dorms probably never realizes she was ""that crazy windpants girl.""
I could certainly try to change my awkward, elitist reputation with some well-placed propaganda. Some expert slippings of ""I'm awesome"" into conversation. Some hints about my too-cool-for-school-ness. I could really try, most likely in vain. You can't change your reputation; it haunts you.
Case in point:
""Oh my god,"" a voicemail started on my cell phone. ""You won't believe who I just found on Facebook."" Dramatic pause, deep breath and— ""That kid from first grade who pulled down his pants! Apparently he went to college.""
I guess I'll take being awkward over a pants-puller-downer.
Tell Caitlin what you really think about her. It's your last chance; she's graduating. E-mail her at cfcieslikmis@wisc.edu.
