Eng. 311 (Autobiographical Writing) Secret Essay
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The cassette was not only an example of bad music, but personal embarrassment as well.

I grew up listening to music like the Beatles, Simon and Garfunkel, James Taylor, and a bunch of other stuff mostly consisting of Hawaiian or classical music. In short, I listened to whatever records my folks had. Now I don’t think there is anything wrong with this–the only problem was that they didn’t care much for popular music, so as a result I didn’t get much exposure to the new stuff on the radio.

The real problem occurred when I reached the sixth grade. It usually surprises the hell out of folks when I tell them I was a horribly shy kid. I desperately wanted to make friends and had no idea how. I was socially awkward, and made constant snafus often resulting in the kid next to me changing seats just in case dorkyness was contagious. (Something I haven’t entirely grown out of yet–I’m just better at hiding it. For the most part.) At recess the other kids would hang out, eating smuggled candy while talking about music. Every time I listened in, I could feel my face falling into a slack clueless expression. When I ventured an opinion, probably along the lines on how great the aria Il Dolce Suono was, they would turn blank faces toward me before turning their backs and hurriedly change the subject in loud voices.

How I wanted to fit in. I wanted to join those conversations, discussing Prince’s new album with other heads nodding in agreement with my assessments. To stand in the middle of the crowd instead of striving to get at least into the fringe. Fitting in seemed to be the most important thing in the world, and I was going to try. And so my shameful secret was born.

After listening carefully to popular opinion, I started putting up 21 Jump Street posters of Johnny Depp in my room, called Kirk Cameron a dream guy and bought the New Kids On The Block cassette tapes. I listened to them, memorized the songs, and learned all of the group member’s names. I picked one at random to have a crush on.

And guess what? None of this made me popular, or even got me friends. Sure I could talk about New Kids now, but anything I said was lame and contrived because I really didn’t give a rats-ass for their music. I felt the music was stupid and repetitive, and I thought something was wrong with me because I was disinterested in what everyone else said was the hottest group.

I eventually gave up, and went back to being the weirdo. I don’t think I ever stopped being a weirdo. I just wore a mask constructed of Teen Beat cemented with ready agreement for anything the popular kids said. In retrospect, being alone wasn’t so bad. It gave me time to rebuild my self-respect as well as develop my own style. It also allowed me to form my own opinions on things without having to pass them through a clique for inspection first. It wasn’t until high school, when I began to glory in my weirdo outsider standing that I made friends; people who could carry an intelligent conversation and not have to look to others for some kind of confirmation on the proper response. People I felt comfortable being myself with.

Not many know that I bought New Kids On The Block albums. It’s been my secret because I’ve been embarrassed to admit the lengths I went to in order to fit in. And dear Gods. I kept it a secret because I paid money for that crap. At least I’m not alone in disliking them anymore. I guess fitting in never goes out of style, huh?