The Word: Kitchen

Kitchen tables are weird. Dad bought ours for Mom on Mother’s Day several years ago, and according to the salespeople, it’s made of reclaimed wood. I don’t really know what reclaimed wood is, but the table is nice enough. It’s strong—strong enough to hold food for five core family members and three regular extended ones. It’s dark brown, and according to Mom, “has great character.” I don’t really know what that means either, but I nodded when she said it. And it’s smooth—well, almost smooth.

At one end of the table, there are a series of scratches. Or, rather, nicks. I’d never admit it to Mom or Dad, so keep this between us, but I am responsible for those nicks.

The first time I nicked the table, I was learning long division. Math never really interested me, and my mind wandered as my tutor explained what a remainder was. During this mind wandering, my pen would find its way into my hand, and the tip of the pen would find its way into the soft wood of the table. A nick.

But math wasn’t the only subject that bored me. As I hand wrote a speech on Marbury v. Madison for a public speaking competition, I got writer’s block. How was a seventh grader supposed to talk about the modern implications of judicial review? Frustration led to boredom, and boredom to nicking.

I learned grammar, engaged with civics, and memorized SAT vocabulary at the kitchen table. My older brother was also there, and sometimes we’d create nicks together.

But homeschooling wasn’t entirely boring. The experience was, to my delight, intensely individualistic—by the time I was in high school, I was designing my own course of study. Rather than being bound to school hours, I was able to power through a day’s worth of work in a morning, so that I could spend nights in the dance studio. And while my traditionally-schooled counterparts complained of disruptive classmates, I reveled in the ability to engage academically, free of distractions. Please, though, keep all of this between us. I keep my less-than-common educational background a secret.

I do so because the word “homeschooled” is a lightning rod for aspiring comedians. Once people catch wind of my hidden identity, they deliver their weak, tired jokes at my expense. “Bet you had a good student-teacher ratio!” Cringe. “Did the other kids bully you?” Cringe. “Did you ever have to stay after school for detention?” Cringe.

I remember staring down at my food in Annenberg, face flushed and chest tight, as a classmate implied that I was admitted to Harvard because, “Your mom just gave you A’s.”

I remember learning not to start a sentence with “When I was in high school…” unless I wanted people to laughingly dismiss it.

I remember being told that I “socialized well, for a homeschooled kid.”

I remember excusing myself from the table at a friend’s dinner party, hoping for a brief escape from the continuous mockery.

And I remember calling my older brother, my eyes full of tears, to ask if it was going to get better.

I don’t talk about it very much anymore. No one really cares where sophomores went to high school. Most friends know, obviously, but are supportive and interested rather than critical. My professors also know, but they just get excited, picking my brain about alternative educational paths.

People are weird, too. When we get bored, we nick things. We pick up our pens and we nick into the soft spots of others. Nicking amuses us. It keeps our minds off of our own insecurities, and gives us an escape at the expense of others.

But to those of you out there with a “joke” you just need to make, have at it. I’ll cringe, yes, but twelve years of cringing has only built my character. And, like my kitchen table, I still have space for a few more nicks.