In my senior English class, I was so moved by both the book that we were discussing and the actual discussing that was taking place, that I put my hand up to comment rather sheepishly replying to the more common somewhat-embarrassing random-call-on. My teacher, Mrs. Gleason was, quite literally, taken aback. She took two small, misguided steps back and banged the side of her hip on her desk. "Samantha?" she half-asked.

"I think I can really identify with what Ellison was writing about. Invisibility. Existing rather than living..." I trailed off when I noticed a couple of the black kids in my class looking at me strangely. Not angrily. Just strangely, as if to silently say, "Are you for real, white girl?" But I was for real. I was willing to bet anything that those three kids had never really noticed me before. Had sat next to me, scooched past my desk, maybe knocking a pencil or piece of paper off with their overstuffed bookbags or coats. Maybe they once asked me for a pencil or piece of paper and I eagerly provided. Still, if I were, for some reason, never to return to class again, I'm confident that not one of them would ask where I was or even feel the sense that someone or something was missing.

To be fair, it's not just the black kids in my twelfth grade english class that wouldn't notice. All of most everyone in the class I'm talking about. I'm the kind of girl that has to remind every single person she meets for the second (and sometimes third) time that they had already met before. If only I was older, at least then, some of those people would say, "Ah, of course" if only because they want to secure a loose connection for networking purposes. Teenagers aren't in that mindset. I tell someone that we've met before and they shrug, look past me and around the room. They don't leave right away. Only when they find someone more attractive or interesting to talk to.

Don't feel sorry for me. I'm not ugly. I went through a phase in sophomore year when I obsessed about my disgustingly repellent appearance. That, I thought, was definitely why no one seemed very interested in knowing me or talking to me or being my friend. I was disgusting people! They couldn't bare to look at me! But I got over that. I got over it because it was more teenage angst than it was truthful observation. I have brownish, wavy-ish hair. Fairly straight teeth (my canines are pretty sharp looking though but I like them). Blue eyes, even. People pay money for tiny little discs of plastic the color of my real eyes. I'm no beauty pageant queen. But I'm not the kind of girl that some guy would take to a pig party, either. To tell you the truth, I don't even know if pig parties ever or still do exist. You know what they are don't you? The parties where frat guys compete to bring the most unattractive girls they can possibly find. I've only seen them depicted on 80s teen movies and how true to life can those be?

Don't feel sorry for me. I'm not a complete depressive. I don't feel like I'm sitting under a bell jar. At least not all the time. I think it's pretty normal to feel a little stifled and bell-jarred every once in a while.