Personality of the Week

When I look back at my old yearbooks, I am surprised to discover that the 1985-86 school year was no longer than average. You could have fooled me. I thought it was at least triple the length. It seemed to last forever thanks to the Personality of the Week program that was run by my school’s guidance counselor’s office.

Every week, this program would profile a different student from each of the 4 first-grade classrooms. Being The Personality of the Week had many advantages, including, but not limited to:

--Having your name written in fancy script on a glittery star hung with the three other Personalities’ names in a prominent hallway in school;

--Having your name written in a non-glittery star and hung alone outside your classroom door;

--Receiving a voucher for free ice cream on Friday, the last day of The Week;

and, in my humble six-year-old opinion, the best perk of this wonderful program:

--Enjoying the rare and privileged opportunity to sit on a throne (actually Mrs. Barnes’ cushy office chair with streamers tied to it for the occasion), with your classmates huddled at your royal feet interviewing you with serious and important biographical questions such as “What is your favorite candy?” and “Who is your favorite Strawberry Shortcake friend?” while the teacher wrote the answers in a noble publication entitled, “[Your Name]: Personality of the Week”

My six-year old life was lived for occasions such as these--occasions where I could show the world how lovely and talented and amazing a six-year old could be and surprise and astonish my fellow human beings with the realization of my many marvelous and remarkable traits and talents. Surely the moment my classmates read my name on the star, I would be catapulted into a glamorous celebrity world and have throngs of adoring elementary-school-aged fans throwing their bodies at my feet in hopes of having my greatness rub off on them. I was a six year old diamond in the rough, just waiting to be mined.

From the moment the program was announced, I would hold my breath every Friday when they proclaimed the name of the new Personality of the Week. But week after week, my name was not called. Perhaps they forgot me. Or, even worse, perhaps I was wrong about my greatness; perhaps I had no Personality of which to put before The Week. It was an agonizing wait. After all, I didn’t learn the phrase, “Save the Best for last" until Mrs. Shelton’s 2nd grade class.

But, save me for last they did. The only remaining day that I could be picked, after every single other first grader had already had their moment to shine, my name was announced. And although I was happy to finally be able to breathe, I was sad that I wouldn’t have the entire school year to gloat in my success. I would only have one measly week to remind everyone about my amazing term as Personality of the Week. I would have to make those 7 scrawny days count by giving the interview of a lifetime; the longest interview in the history of the Personality of the Week program; the most charming, most mind-blowing, most awe-inspiring interview known the Tussing Elementary.

In all reality, I’m sure no one else remembered my interview. In fact, I, myself, had forgotten all about it until a few years ago while I was rifling through the contents of a wicker chest that I used to keep at the foot of my bed, I came across the glittery star on which my name was written in fancy script and hung in a prominent hallway in school, and the non-glittery star on which my name was written in fancy script and hung outside the classroom door and the 24”x36” blue lined tablet paper on which was written the noble publication entitled, “Carrie Barrett: Personality of the Week”.

It read:

Carrie Barrett is 6 years old. Her favorite color is black. Liver and onions are her favorite food. Her favorite animals are spiders and snakes...

...and so forth and so on.

I would list it in its entirety if I had it in my possession, but I think you still get the gist. That bio gave every possible controversial answer that my first grade mind could think of. Seeing my first grade teachers’ handwriting on those 6 pages of yellowed paper made the memory flood back to me: sitting on that “throne,” being interviewed by my classmates and listening to them groan at my answers, making them ooh and ahh at my exotic choices, blowing their minds with my complex Personality.

I chuckled to myself with the recognition that I have not changed at all. As much as I hate to admit it, I am that exact same Carrie I was back then. I still crave the spotlight; Even now I am a sucker for recognition; I am the same little girl, thriving on strong reactions from people.

And, let’s be honest, I deserve Personality of the Millennium.