I attended St. Peter’s Catholic School from kindergarten to eighth grade. From the outside, this little redbrick building, perched on the corner of a street, looks like a church —probably because it’s half church, half school—the community focal point of Hokah, Minnesota (population: 543). No, I’m not shitting you on that number, nor am I shitting you when I say that there were only sixty children at my school and FIVE in my class.
That’s right: five—Glen, Vince, Andy, Jacob, and me, each with our own worn, wooden desk. Think Little House on the Prairie, and you’ll get the picture. It might also explain why attending St. Peter’s was incredibly uneventful. I soon wanted more than the five boys in my grade to hang out with, and my restlessness clearly made itself known. “You were a little rascal growing up,” Mrs. Lewis, my first-grade teacher, likes to remind me to this day. She’s being nice by saying “rascal.” I’m pretty sure half the teachers who taught me wanted to retire after we five stormed through their classroom—a mini-whirlwind causing much disruption. I’ll say this, though: St. Peter’s left quite the impression on me, enforcing kindness, intelligence, and good morals. “Do unto others what you would have them do unto you” was the golden rule painted on the wall of the stairwell. Read it. Learn it. LIVE IT! It also echoed everything my parents drilled into me. Being “the good boy” was the governing expectation. A fine message it was, too, even if I didn’t immediately understand it. It took several years until I truly appreciated the strict letter of the moral law, as my classmate Jacob would testify.
One snowy winter’s day on the playground, he got himself into trouble when he mouthed off to Mrs. Lewis, who was overseeing all sixty kids as they played tag or built an awesome fort in one of the snowbanks. For his boldness, she reserved him a sweet spot on the wall where he had to sit for a fifteen-minute time-out. “This isn’t fair!” he kept saying, and I agreed with him. Most kids would just laugh, watch the friend mope away, and play with the other boys in the snow. Nope. Not me. Jacob was my best friend. I couldn’t leave him standing there to either pass out from pure boredom or freeze to death like a kidsicle! In the spirit of loyalty, I walked toward the wall with the intent of standing next to him and honorably joining in on his punishment. But Mrs. Lewis was already wise to my thinking and intervened.
“Go play, Mr. Franta,” she said. “This area is off-limits.”
“Well, is there any way I can go over there with Jacob?”
“Nope,” she said. “That area is only for kids who are in trouble.”
“Okay,” I said.
With that, the evil genius within me kicked in. I picked up a handful of snow, packed it together nicely to create a perfectly round snowball, and hurled it at the face of the nearest kid who was unfortunate enough to be walking by. SMACK! A direct hit.
I turned and looked directly at Mrs. Lewis. “Oops, guess I’m in trouble too.” Young Connor was dastardly, I’m telling you.
Sure enough, an angry Mrs. Lewis sent me into the trouble zone and I ended up sitting against the same wall with Jacob. That act solidified a friendship that continues to this day. Now, I’m not saying you have to hit a poor, random child in the face with a snowball to have good friendships—or am I? No. No, I’m not.
I don’t think . . .
No, the point of this story is that there are only a select few friends, past or present, that I would go to such lengths to stand by. That’s what school really taught me: the enduring nature of friendship. How special it is to grow up and share a history with someone. As I’ve gotten older, friendships rooted in childhood feel even richer and more irreplaceable.
Friendship. Now there’s an interesting topic. I’ve always appeared to have a lot of friends, but appearances can be deceiving. Sure, I know a lot of people and am comfortable saying “hi” to them in the street, shooting them a text saying we should grab a coffee, or going on Facebook to wish them a happy birthday, but where does that rank them in terms of friendship?
For me, there are distinct levels of friendship:
BEST FRIEND: An extremely close individual you can do anything with, talk about everything with, confide in, and be comfortable with sitting in silence on car journeys; those people you consider to be part of your family
GOOD FRIEND: A person you are comfortable hanging out with one-on-one for an extended period of time and see semiregularly; someone who shares experiences with you but not your deepest troubles and secrets
FRIEND: Someone you hang out with in a group setting occasionally
ACQUAINTANCE: Someone you know on a first-name basis and say “hi” to but that’s pretty much the extent of it
STRANGERS: The rest of the world (and all your potential best friends in the future)
I would rather have 1 amazing best friend than 100 decent regular friends. It’s not about quantity, it’s about quality.
Recently, and more than ever before, I realized that I have three best friends, a dozen good friends, a whole bunch of friends, an even bigger bunch of acquaintances, and billions of strangers in my own life.
Ranking where people stand in your life and who they are to you helps you determine who you value the most and therefore where best to spend your time. Truth be told, I don’t have too many people who are close to me. That was kind of scary to realize at first, but I’ve also found a strange sense of comfort in it. You want to know why? Well, I’m going to tell you.
Friends are not a number. You can’t collect connections. You can’t just go out one day and be like, “Hey, I need some friends!” *goes shopping, scours social media*
Don’t count the number of “friends” you have on Facebook or the followers you have on Twitter, Tumblr, or Instagram. True friendship is counted in memories, experiences, and troubles shared; it’s a bond built up over time in person, not a virtual tally on the Internet. It finds you; you don’t find it. A relationship forms, you discover common interests, and you realize this bond is the closest thing to romance that is possible. Yes, that’s it: true friendship is a relationship without sex or attraction. It doesn’t judge, gossip, flake, and get envious. It stands by you through thick and thin. It supports you at your lowest ebb and celebrates with you at your highest point. It allows you to be yourself, good and bad. And it’s a two-way street: you give and take equally.
As you get older, sometimes your goals will take you away from your closest friends. Literally. Two of my best friends now live in different countries than I do. Now, you’re probably thinking, Connor, it must take some real work to keep up those relationships. Wrong. The best part about best friends is that you can maintain a relationship at any distance. In this day and age, we have Skype, FaceTime, text messages, audio messages, photo messages, and every social media site you can think of. With my friends, I send little photo updates almost daily and do a video call every week. It’s really not that difficult. We talk about anything and everything. I can confide my deepest, darkest secrets with my best friends and fear no judgment. It’s actually the best. And when we have the luxury of being in the same location, we pick things up like we were never separated. It really doesn’t matter where we go or what we do; it’s honestly just so nice to be in each other’s presence that the rest doesn’t matter.
Whether it’s the friends who have walked with you or the friends who await you in the future, the value of true friendship is golden. Know this too: Some people won’t like you, and you won’t like everyone. That’s okay. None of that matters. What matters is meeting like-minded people who get you, accept you, and will do anything for you. Even if that means pegging some poor kid in the face with a snowball and sitting against a playground wall on a cold, snowy day.
Moon Gazing
I remember cool autumn nights when a couple of friends and I would walk a few blocks from my house to a park: playground dead ahead, baseball field to the right, or soccer field to the left. We’d always head left to the middle of the field where it seemed darker and quieter, and we would lie down, hands tucked under our
heads, looking up at the sky, as clear as can be.
This was one of my favorite things to do as a teenager. It still is.
Lying there, the silence seemed to pierce my every pore, thought, and sense. On chilly nights in Minnesota, you can see every star and twinkle in the deep void above. Not only is it visually stunning, it always shifts my perspective, reminding me how small we are on earth—tiny specks in a tiny city on a tiny globe suspended in a vast universe. We really are minuscule in the grand scheme of things.
I know this experience sounds very much like The Fault in Our Stars; if you’ve read that book or seen that movie, you can probably imagine the scene. In this case, I’m Shailene Woodley. But all cheese factor aside, it’s a great way to be with friends and reflect and open up. When I’m with my friends, we usually talk about anything and everything for an hour or so. Nothing else matters; it’s almost a worry-free zone. All feelings, opinions, thoughts, and emotions are fair game. No judgment. I love a long evening at the park. It refreshes my soul and enhances my perspective.
Missing Out
I HATE MISSING OUT—always have and probably always will. I remember especially feeling this way when I was younger, as this story illustrates.
I’m eight, it’s a weekend, and the whole family is at home, not doing very much. My dad, being the good father he is, decides to treat me to a one-on-one father-son outing. I’m playing with toys in my bedroom when he walks in smiling, eager to begin the fun plans he has in store. “Con! How about you and I drive down to the lake, fish for a bit, then get some ice cream! How’s that sound?”
Sounds good, I think. But there’s a but. Somewhat skeptical, I say, “Um, well, what is everyone else going to do while we’re gone?” Dad laughs. “I don’t know! But hey, they definitely won’t have as much fun as us.” That was the reassurance I was seeking. “Good,” I reply. “No fun. I don’t want them to do anything while we’re gone. Just sit and not move.” Dad probably thought I was being unintentionally cute, but I meant it. I didn’t want anyone to have fun until we were back, because I wouldn’t be there to share it with them. Oh, what a little shit I was.
I rarely missed out on much . . . and yet it still bothered me.
Funny thing is, I’m still the same today (not the little shit part; more the not-wanting-people-to-have-fun-when-I’m-not-there part). The thought of friends or family enjoying themselves in my absence gives me the heebie-jeebies. (Side note: Does any breathing human even use that phrase anymore—heebie-jeebies? I know I normally don’t. Who am I? Who are you?? How did I get here??? GO AWAY!)
But anyway, I have often wondered what this particular trait was all about and I recently figured it out, thanks to a friend. “Oh, you have FOMO,” he said, as though it were an everyday, medically diagnosed condition.
“I have what?!” I responded, thinking it was some deadly disease.
“FOMO. Fear Of Missing Out.”
He wasn’t joking. It’s in Urban Dictionary. It’s legit. Look it up.
Where YOLO (You Only Live Once) is about having the time of your life, FOMO is its polar opposite—and resides within me. I know I’m not alone in this. We’ve all tasted it, especially on those weekend nights when you’ve chosen to stay in and then see your friends post on social media about their fun evening out, and you squirm with jealousy.
Social media makes this condition ten times worse. Everyone is constantly posting little updates in real time for everyone else to see, so you know what you’re missing at every waking moment. I know exactly when and where family, friends, and acquaintances are enjoying a refreshing juice or artery-clogging burger. It’s terrible. No place online is safe. You can’t go on the Internet. You’re forced to do things like . . . like . . . like read a book. EW.
I recognized this social curse as soon as my friend diagnosed it. Suddenly there was a label to some unknown feeling I had normalized and become accustomed to. Yeah, that makes sense, I thought. After some deep reflection this light-bulb moment induced, I soon pinpointed where this feeling comes from in me: middle child syndrome. (There’s always someone or something else to blame, right?)
Take it from a middle child; being a middle child sucks. You have neither the responsibility that comes with being the oldest nor the luxury that comes with being the baby. You have N O T H I N G. No label. No identity. Not to mention my fellow middle child, Nicola, was the only girl in the family. See! Nothing! You’re the in-between child, squeezed into the order of things. You’re the Idaho to New York and Los Angeles. You’re the regular-sized cup in between the large and small. (I actually like a good medium-sized drink, to be quite honest, but you get the point.)
Ugh, what a rough life we middle children live. Feel bad for us, okay? OKAY!!?! Okay.
My mom has since confirmed that my overeager go-to response—when I was going anywhere or had anything planned for me—was, “What’s everyone else going to do?”
“We noticed a change in your temperament following the birth of your brother Brandon, and that coincided with our move to La Crescent and you turning two years old,” she recently told me. “Dad and I would try to spend some one-on-one time with you, but you were always afraid of missing out on something at home. No one was allowed to have fun if you weren’t there!”
My poor parents. What did I put them through?!
But I genuinely worried about it. I worried about being left out to such a degree that even when I wasn’t being left out, I still worried about missing out.
Of course, the truth is that my position in the family wasn’t as bad as I have depicted. I just made it out to be bad (because I’m not-so-secretly dramatic). That’s not to say that the extent of my fear wasn’t true. There have been instances when I’ve spent more time worrying that I’m missing out on something than actually enjoying what’s right in front of me. And there, my friends, is the lesson to be learned.
Life should be more about living in the moment than fearing what’s happening outside it. It’s about honoring what you want to do at any given time, regardless of what everyone else is doing. There’s no use worrying about things that are out of your control.
As I get older, I’d like to think I have my FOMO under control, but by no means is it gone. I still can’t help but cringe a little when I see my friends out doing something fun while I’m stuck at home all alone. But I immediately tell myself, “Hey. If you don’t want to be alone, don’t be alone, stupid. Text one of your friends and go do something.” It’s as simple as that. If someone responds, I’m very happy to live in that moment with that person. If no one does, I enjoy the alone time and appreciate the silence. I’ve learned it’s completely all right to do that, too—be alone, that is. It gives me a good excuse to catch up on my Netflix addiction. Everyone wins.
All in all, I’m learning to tame the shady jealousy demon that’s been with me since childhood. There have been numerous occasions when, consumed with inexplicable fear, I have hated being where I was because I knew—or believed—there was somewhere better to be. That middle child reared his head and started looking around, getting fidgety. In moments like this, I’m left with two options:
1. Make that unfortunate situation better by allowing myself to have a good time.
2. Make an effort to be where I want to be and don’t waste my time elsewhere.
These days, I won’t miss out if there’s nowhere else I would rather be. Plain and simple. We cannot do everything; we cannot be everywhere. If you want to have a good time, make it a good time! If you want to sit and sulk about how bored and uneventful things are, cool! Enjoy that. It sounds amazing—in a weird, dark, antisocial kind of way. But I’ve been there. I’ve worried needlessly. The doubt, the distaste, the what-is-happening-elsewhere was all in my head. A complete waste of energy. So that’s it. I’m saying NO MORE to FOMO. I suggest you do the same.
High School Is Weird
AFTER LIVING UP my education at St. Peter’s for nine years, it was time to get the heck out of there and m
ove on to bigger (hardly) and better (hardly) things: high school. *dramatically zooms in, screams; horror music plays in the background* I left my Catholic school with a good head on my shoulders and a decent reputation, but this was definitely a dramatic shift, even though I was still in La Crescent. I went from a world of sixty students to one with around five hundred, from a humble brick shack to an institution with halls specific to each grade and dozens of teachers. The scale of everything was dizzying, but at least it was only two miles from my house. The convenience was, well, convenient.
Walking in through the gates on my first day, I was surprised how I took all this in my stride. Not at all scared. In fact, I was excited for the change because I believed what the teachers said: my whole future lay ahead of me.
Nicola, a junior that year, drove me to school on my first day, and that probably helped calm the nerves too. On the way there, I did wonder about certain things. Will it be the same as the movies, with bullies, scary seniors, horrible lunches, and centuries of homework? Doubtful. Will I make friends easily? Probably. Are these going to be the best years of my life? I freaking hope not! But such questions faded into insignificance when measured against the bigger issues on my mind: forgetting my locker combo, not being able to find my classes, and sitting alone at lunch. Rough life, right? But isn’t that what we all do in high school? Overthink things and worry about what’s out of our control?