I came across today something I wrote long ago.  It is dated May 17, 1990.  I was still working then, and the poem was written on the day of the eighth grade play.

THE EIGHTH GRADE PLAY

Eighth graders are a breed apart,

or perhaps a better way to say it

is to declare them a separate tribe

quite different from the rest of humanity,

and as with all tribes there are customs

that are particular to that group alone.

It might be a kindness to adolescents

to give each of them a mask to wear

from the age of eleven or twelve

and allow them to wear it with impunity 

until at least the age of seventeen.

It should be a mask of their own choosing

because any chosen for them

would be rejected outright as wrong.

I like to watch them strut about upon the stage,

thinking they are cool and smooth there 

because whatever part they play

is, after all, just a part and not them at all.

They don’t know their awkwardness is obvious

until they are required to play themselves,

the part they know less about than any other.

If I ruled the earth and could require absolutely 

every teacher and parent to do as I command,

I’d say don’t ever, ever, under any circumstance

ridicule or belittle or taunt or require

an eighth grader to come out unwillingly

from behind the mask he chooses to wear.

Giver him time, give him time, give him time,

and love and understanding and love,

and then give him some more time,

if he requires it.