The Time I Made A Board Game…
My classmates are all staring at me, red face framed with frizzy hair that doesn’t quite hide the tears running down my cheeks. My world is crashing down around me and my young life is being ruined as I stare down my teacher, torn between my two passions: being right and being liked. My lip quivers as the whispers grow bolder, the cruel sound making me want to shrink into nothing, to run away, to go jump into the ocean and become one with the sea-life. At least that sea-life is free, which is what caused this whole mess to begin with.
I'll be real with you, there’s a reason that I don’t talk to anyone I was friends with in elementary or middle school. They’ve seen too much. I don’t need anyone in my life who isn’t related to me that remembers my Cats phase (the hit 1980 musical AND the animal). I was passionate about very specific things and a lot of the time that just wasn’t palatable to the other kids. And not only was I passionate, I had a tendency to get a little obsessed over the things I cared about, which didn’t exactly make me popular.
So, I’m in the seventh grade. Chambers Middle School, Bennett, Nebraska. I am in an agriculture class, a mandatory semester-long ordeal where we learn about all things agricultural. I mean, all twelve year olds should learn about the gestation period of a horse and the best climate for dent corn to grow in. These are what we call “life skills”, people. The teacher, Miss Ford, a woman with coppery red hair and a mouth that seems to permanently be stuck in a scowl, assigns us a project for the end of the year. This is meant to be an easy A, a good way to wrap up the semester. Pretty much, if you do it, you’re set. It can be any kind of presentation or activity. It can be on any agricultural topic. Creativity is encouraged. This is my time to shine.
Like I said before, I was not popular in middle school. And in my mind, this presentation would be the thing that would get me in with the cool kids. In my heart, I knew that if I could make something that was fun, moving, and socially conscious, nothing could stand in my way. Okay sure, seventh grade was a wash but this project would launch me into the eighth grade with some major clout. What better way to get kids to like me than with a bold academic project?
I spend hours researching, trying to find the perfect topic. Something that’ll make me stand out, something that won’t just be basic like the history of the Belted Galloway breed of cows or something dumb like the different irrigation systems and associated timing that are best suited for soybean growth. No, I find the perfect topic. The evils of factory fish farming. From the overcrowded and filthy conditions they’re kept in to the way they’re killed, I am fired up about this. I pour my heart and soul into this presentation, fully prepared to be cheered into the eighth grade. I have found the perfect way to impress my classmates. And at this point, I’m convinced I’m going to start an anti-factory fish farming revolution within this group of children.
The day of the presentation comes and I am ready. It’s not just a silly little poster board. I volunteer to go first, not just because I’m so excited but also because this is going to take a while. I launch into my informative yet militant PowerPoint with all the drama my community theater directors have praised me for. I give my riveting presentation, working the crowd, using phrases like “exploitation of innocents” and “gross negligence”. My classmates, the people I can only assume will soon be welcoming me into their ranks with open arms, are held captive. I see James Martin lean over to McKenzie Brown and whisper something, smiling. This is going perfectly.
My PowerPoint contains images of these poor fish stuffed into tiny enclosures, their damaged fins dangling limply to the side, images of the fish who are blinded and left that way because the farmers only care about profit and blind fish tastes the same, images of the sores left behind by the massive infestations of sea lice, slide after slide painting a picture of the horrifying abuse.
How could anyone not be fired up about this?
After the PowerPoint, which I’m convinced is the single most important slideshow in Chambers Middle School history, we move on to the board game. Yes, the board game. I spent a whole weekend carefully formulating and planning out this game and hand making the pieces, the board, the instruction cards and so on. In it, you play as a fish trapped in a factory farm. The goal is to escape with your life. There’s a good chance you’ll die in the process. Think of it as a more intricate Sorry with the drama of Oregon Trail and the high tensions of Monopoly, all with the message of abolishing factory fish farms.
People are clearly excited about this. Marissa, Elyssa, and Mary Kate are all gathered together laughing and glancing over at me. They’re probably planning to invite me to their end of year pool party. I take a moment to consider what I’ll wear until I’m pulled back to reality by sheer excitement. The only problem is that there are maybe twenty kids in my class and I have made only one game board. I did include enough fish pieces to have everyone play but that is a lot of twelve-year-olds to all be crammed in a small space. But whatever, that’s more realistic to the struggle of these aquatic heroes. Oh and by now, I’m thinking that I could maybe sell this game to Hasbro, maybe even get sponsored by PETA (I didn’t know they sucked at this point in my life. It was a much simpler time).
Everything is going great until my teacher pulls me to the side. I can tell just by looking at her that I’m not going to like what she has to say.
“Maria, you’re very bright and you’re clearly very passionate about this but your information is wrong. Farms aren’t like this. What were your sources?”
I’m taken aback. I have photographic evidence, ma’am. I list off a few of the websites I read from and she shakes her head. She’s clearly going to be pro-farm. She’s an agriculture teacher! She’s the head of our high school’s chapter of Future Farmers of America! She won’t listen to the truth. She tries to tell me I’m wrong again and I tell her that I’m not. She’s just too blinded by Big Farm-a to see it. And now, we’ve attracted the attention of my classmates. They’ve stopped playing my brilliant game and are watching me bicker with the teacher over fish. This is not how this was supposed to go.
They should be playing the game that I worked so hard on, all the while realizing that I am worthy of their friendship! They should be whispering to each other about how cool I am and how they don’t know how they never realized it, not whispering about the tears that are starting to fill my eyes. They should be laughing with me, their new best friend and not starting to snicker as the tears begin to fall while I hopelessly argue with a woman who is as blind as a tilapia whose eyes were eaten by sea lice.
My face turns red as I realize that this has all gone horribly wrong. I can’t fight back anymore because my throat is tight with tears and my breathing is ragged with sobs. This was supposed to be the best day of my middle school career and now everyone has seen me fall to pieces. And what’s worse, they don’t seem to care about the trails of the trout or culling of the cod.
