Earlier this year I was in a movie called Love, Simon. I was in two little baby scenes. It was maybe 8 seconds of screen time (if I’m being generous) but I said some words and you saw my face. My fully-3-dimensional-actualized-developed-wholly-human character’s name was ‘Math Teacher’ although I called him Chuck. When the movie came out, I down played the whole thing (like I just did in the 4 sentences leading up to this one). Self-deprecation is kinda my style but this was a little extreme. My family didn’t even know when the movie was coming out because I didn’t really tell them. There are scores of deeply subconscious reasons why I did that but, ultimately, I didn’t want to be one of those actors who blows up everyone’s phone talking about their 8 seconds of screen time playing ‘Math Teacher.’

It was my birthday weekend when the movie was released so some friends came over for cake and then we caravanned to the theater. They forced me to go and they forced me to celebrate. The moment I popped up on screen, my friends got a little ghetto (as was to be expected). There was excited whispertalking and squeals. Only a few people turned around to see the commotion. Once the moment passed and my nerves settled down, I was able to enjoy the rest of the movie.  I couldn’t stop smiling because it was pretty darn cool to see my face on a 40-foot screen in a real movie in a real movie theater. I was beaming.

We walk out into the lobby afterwards and something in me flips. I switch. My friends are still freaking out but I had already gone from beaming to downplaying.

“It wasn’t that much screen time.”

“You guys, I played Math Teacher.”

“Didn’t you think my forehead was too shiny?”

“They cut all the improv I did.”

“Let’s talk about how good the popcorn is here.”

That’s when my roommate, Katie, stepped forward and grabbed me hard by the shoulders. She looked me straight in the eye and said, “Are you freaking kidding me?! Patrick you were in a movie. A MOVIE! Millions of people are going to see this movie. Your middle school self would be losing his shit right now.”

I was dumbfounded. That thought smacked me over the head, brought me back to reality, and has stayed with me since. The fact is Katie was right. My middle school self was completely and utterly losing his shit at the fact that I was in a movie. That poor, awkward, lost little 12-year-old kid was in that theater with me, holding my hand, shoveling popcorn into his gob and asking for another soda refill. When my 28-year-old self came on screen, 12-year-old Patrick squirmed and squealed. His popcorn went flying everywhere and he practically danced in his seat. He kept punching my shoulder and pointing at the screen.

It’s hard for me to trace my personal lineage back to that 12-year-old kid because I feel so different from him now. You see, middle school was rough for me, as I’m sure it is for about 99.01% of the population. When I started at McKinley Classical Junior Academy, I was a petrified, shaking mess (quite literally). I was transitioning to a public middle school of about 400 students. Up to that point, I had only known Notre Dame Elementary, a small K-8 Catholic school of about 100 students. For the first 7 years of my schooling, I stayed with the same 20 kids (more or less). My world had been small, safe, and contained at NDE (I use the term ‘safe’ loosely…it was in south city St. Louis after all). I went to school with kids whose siblings were in the same grade as my siblings. We all went to church, school, and youth group together. Our social life consisted of the same 8 families (more or less) who all went to NDE. So when I transitioned to middle school I was a floppy Catholic fish out of water. It was the first time I was around a lot of kids who didn’t look like me. It was the first time I got to choose what to wear (no more uniforms?!). It was the first time I actually had to make friends.

During most of middle school I felt lost. I didn’t know how to be around kids that I hadn’t known my whole life. I didn’t know how to be cool (still don’t). I didn’t know anything about fashion or grooming (still don’t).

Case and point: my hair routine.

Every morning I was allowed approximately 5 minutes in the bathroom to get ready. Once my time began, I would rush in and begin the hair process. Washing my face and brushing my teeth were secondary and tertiary priorities at best. Step one was to submerge my entire head in the sink and wet the fuck out of every follicle. It was critical that I look like I had just come from an ocean swim. Once soaked, I would do a surface towel-dry. It was a tough balance because you wanted the hair to look wet (it was the late 90’s) without it technically dripping down your neck, past your shoulders, and into your crack.

Then came a fistful of gel that was evenly distributed throughout the hair. This wasn’t any ol type of gel. This was industrial-strength-government-issued-could-be-used-for-carpentry gel. I’m convinced it was made by Elmer’s. It usually smelled like fresh linen and was tinted a slight blue for literally no reason. The gel was the base upon which everything rested (my hopes and dreams included).

Next came the mousse (or is it moose? Müss?). This was to add some volume. Gel alone would have held the hair in place (as well as a dining room table if needed) but mousse added another level of protection. It was a crucial step. After the mousse was evenly dispersed, then came the styling. I would take a comb and draw the top of my hair down and up. The front of my hair would look like the bill of a hat and had the power to cut through glass. Think spiky. Think Guy Fieri. Think hideous. In addition to styling, the combing also served to remove some of the excess product. Had I been smart I’m sure I could have collected it, put it back in the gel bottle, and used it the next day. Whatever. Hindsight is perfect sight.

Once the hair had a sturdy gel base, was volumized by the mousse, and styled into a helmet-shaped helmet by the comb, next came the hair spray. Yes, just when you thought there was enough product on top of my head, I busted out the gallon can of Aqua Net. There could, under no circumstances, be any fly-aways. Think of how mortifying that would have been! I didn’t need a ton of hair spray, just enough to punch a small hole through the ozone. Once the Aqua Net cloud in the bathroom settled and I could open my eyes again, I would assess my work in the mirror. It was art. It was sharp (literally). It was hard. It was a public safety hazard. I’d then run a toothbrush over my pearlies, throw on some gargantuan cargo pants, and head out the door.

That’s who I was in middle school. That sorry 12-year-old kid felt like he needed a helmet to protect himself from the world. So, he constructed one out of hair. That’s who was sitting next to me in the movie theater freaking the fuck out that his grown-up self was in a real movie.

Since that night I try to check-in with my middle school self on occasion. It turns out that he’s a pretty cool kid. He’s managed to teach me some things. He’s taught me that I need to check my cynicism more often. He’s taught me that it’s okay to get excited about stuff. Get excited over the big things but also get excited over the small things. Trivial stuff fills our lives so maybe we shouldn’t overlook it. As adults we get pissy and annoyed at things that our younger selves would probably be peeing their pants over. Angry about your car payment? “You own your own car?!” Pissed that you didn’t book that role? “You mean you got to audition for a TV show?!” Bummed about that hangover? “You can drink?!” 

Maybe it’s naive and unrealistic but occasionally revisiting our inner child has the potential to make life a little more joyful. And with the world feeling as dark as it does right now, that may be one of our answers: Joy.

Joy and hope.

It’s possible that our younger selves knew more than we do now. Except about hair. I know a little more about hair now.