Unliked

Turning 13 was hard for me.

I left grade school, secure in my acceptance, for the devastation of junior high.

For the first time, I learned freckles were a blight, allowing my hair to curl was hideous, and wearing glasses was just short of criminal.

Boys only talked to me to get within smiling range of my best friend who was pretty, outgoing, and had a perfect page boy.

And I suffered this without the fury of social media taking bites out of me.

Daily we are reminded of the rise in depression and suicide among kids, especially girls. I read these reports and wince, grateful to have navigated my formative years without living under the incessant tallying of LIKES, let alone cruel comments.

Until recently.

This spring I’ll appear at a book festival. The administrators created a Facebook page for the event and have introduced each of us in our own requisite square. I appeared on February 7th, complete with smiling head shot, book cover, and brief bio.

No one has LIKED it.

Is it me? I find myself wondering when I return to the page to check. Freckles, vanished. Curls, controlled. Blue glasses, stylish. Book cover, precious (even if I wrote it).

It stings, nevertheless. I see why teenagers, lacking real confidence, feel shame. It’s a glaring, taunting, public spotlight with no off switch. Tragically, some have found it, leaving families forever broken by the needless loss of gentle souls.

I was out of town for a while and scrolled through last night, hoping, optimistically, that someone had bothered to LIKE my square—even if out of pity.

Nope.

I remain unacknowledged in a row of faces bestowed with approving blue thumbs. Some actually have hearts. Granted, no one has been mean, but anyone notices being ignored.

For seven years I taught high school. I have no memory of my scintillating commentary on A Tale of Two Cities or far-reaching suggestions on writing in the margins of student essays. But I do remember listening to the kids who admitted their personal doubts, disappointments, and dreams in my office. When their voices caught and eyes reddened, I nudged the tissue box closer.  

My teacher’s blue thumb up, back in the day.

These days there aren’t enough tissues for what they experience, and I fear there’s no going back.

Recently, I got a simple clue.