Neal and I went out for lunch together today and decided upon Subway, which is right near our house. When we arrived, Neal saw through the window that it was filled with elementary school children and we, at first, thought there were no open tables. After ordered, we realized that there was indeed on booth left open, still surrounded by the tiny bobbing heads and Donald Duck voices that children this age all seem to have (especially in cacophony). We decided to forge ahead and be brave in the face of shrill voices and tiny rocketing bodies all around us.
We sat down and began eating, discussing my doctor’s appointment from this morning (ARGH is all I have to say about it for now) and Neal’s papers that he’s grading. I happened to glance over at the tiny two-person booth across the aisle from us. Sitting all alone and looking quite forlorn was a small girl with a mottled pinkish winter hat on the table next to her and dirty-white moon boots (okay, not the real deal, but pretty danged close and really high up on her tiny legs). She was finishing up a few things and hanging onto her yogurt that she wasn’t going to finish. No other child in the room was alone. In the table next to us was a little girl surrounded by three boys, the boys hitting each other with their Subway bags of litter while the little girl giggled at their antics. The other two-person booth by the girl across from us had two little girls in it who were a whirl of movement and talk.
Only this one was alone, not talking, not really moving, not frenetic—just sitting and waiting. Neal said, “Don’t you wish you could tell them that they will look back on this and really dislike themselves for being like this?” I agreed. I can remember instances of childhood where I was teased or bullied, but I never let on that I cared to those meanies—and I always had friends to grouse to and complain with about those types. I never remember being alone like this, alone with myself in a room full of happy, laughing, talking people. I know that I was never a bully, but I can definitely look back at times that I really hate myself for not speaking up in someone else’s defense. I never dished it out, but sometimes I didn’t try to stop it either.
“Don’t you wish you could tell her that it won’t always be like this? Do you wish you could see into the future and could say, ‘One day you will be head of your own company and these other kids will be your janitors!’” Neal nodded. “I really wish we had bought some cookies and that it wouldn’t be weird to give them to her out of the blue,” I said. My heart aches for these lost children, the ones that seem within themselves. My work with children who have been abused or neglected really opened my heart in a much more empathetic way than I felt when I was younger. I felt a lump in my throat, glancing out of the corner of my eye so as not to seem as though I’m staring at the girl.
When they were getting ready to leave, a woman came over and sat with her, asking how her lunch was. They had received prizes in their meals, I think, and the woman asked her about what she got—a bracelet. She asked if the girl wanted her to help put it on. The girl nodded and immediately pulled up her sleeves, holding out her skinny arm. I heard her voice for the first time. “Yes, please!” as her arm bolted outward and “Thanks!” when it was done. (Another adult in the group came over earlier and sat in the other two-person booth, putting one of the girls there on his lap—instead of sitting in the empty seat across from this girl. I’m assuming he was the teacher because we’d also seen him stopping the boys next to us from flinging their bags around at each other with a simple glance and a “Hello…”)
Neal and I looked at each other and smiled. Sometimes it just takes a little attention to be remembered forever. The kids all got up to leave, lining up, and trooped out together in a large bunch.
Yet this is only my story. I don’t know her story at all or why she was alone. Perhaps my sorrow was misplaced and she’s really mean and snotty, but I don’t think so from her reactions to the woman who sat with her. Whatever was going on, I hate seeing the casting out of fellow people begin at such an early age. “Kids can be so mean and cruel,” Neal reiterated. Indeed they can. And, remembering back on my elementary and middle school years, kids can be the cruelest to the kids who never feel acceptance—even in their own homes from their own parents or family members. I remember the biggest bullies (not the big mean ones but the snobby ones who were “the best”) were always saying awful things to the kids who were dirty or who smelled or who couldn’t afford nice clothes or the foster kids who were in and out of the school within months (if not days). I remember the kids who could least expect to take it were the ones who were hassled the most—the ones who didn’t realize they were worth more than a shove in the lunch line or a nasty word while washing hands at the bathroom sink.
Now I remember wishing, years later when I thought back on those days, that I could go back and let them know they were worth more than they thought, than their parents thought, than their peers thought. They are worth more and deserve better than life was giving them.
But even an outspoken girl such as myself didn’t speak out enough. I didn’t stand up enough and say, “Stop it!” I didn’t push forward enough and demand better for the other kids.
In some ways, that makes me just as bad as the kids who were doing the teasing and bullying. I know I spoke up some and demanded better some and said, “Stop!” some. But—in memory—some just isn’t enough for me.
Yeah… I didn’t do enough in my younger days, either. I even teased a bit at times, and I’m not happy or proud about it either. Nothing big, especially compared to what I faced in junior high, but that’s no justification. But yeah… I wish humans weren’t so mean, or that we learned it at such an early age. *shakes head*
It seems we can never do enough. I remember being that little kid that sat alone a lot because I was different and poor by other kids’ standards and then, when I got old enough, I decided to be the kid the who tormented and excluded and hurt everyone else. Looking back I know I did a lot wrong and I have even made apologies to a few of the people whom I targeted so regularly – but I still feel as though those apologies are inadequate – somehow they are not enough…
I’m still unsure how I escaped a lot of the teasing that my sister claims she was subjected to when we were younger. I know I WAS teased, quite a bit actually, but I never took the bait. I knew people were talking about me, but I always still had a small group of friends that I knew I could trust. My sister and I were raised with the same clothes (almost literally for me, since I could look forward to hand-me-downs—at least until my sister kept growing and I eventually stopped getting any taller!) and everything else. She, however, seemed to feel more outcast than I did. Maybe a lot of that is perspective. (I’m getting a bit introspective here, even now.) I always did my best and generally did well in things. I didn’t have a lot during those years but I had brains, and I used ‘em. By junior high, most of the teasing had stopped (except by a few demented and very disturbed individuals who carried things too far in high school, beyond teasing and into illegal harassment—one of those girls, I really don’t even know what I did to her, but I do know that from kindergarten onward, she was the ringleader of most of the rumors and teasing in my life. I assume to this day that she was jealous of certain things I had that she didn’t, even when I had less materialistically), and I generally got along with everyone in our class. This was also a huge difference between me and my sister.
The only difference that I can see is this: I stood up for myself even if no one else did while my sister generally played the victim. Looking forward in life, I can see this playing out in other scenarios in life as we got older. Even if I didn’t really have confidence, I pretended I did and got by. I stood up to principals and teachers when I felt they had wronged me (just as I did with students): My sister ran to my parents and complained until they did something about the issues (with parents/school administrators, not other students).
I’ve actually been debating this since Christmas-time when my sister mentioned something about the awful teasing to my mom. I don’t remember it being as bad as she does—but I remember it basically ending completely after sixth grade, whereas my sister remembers it continuing until she graduated.
Therein lies the rub, though. Just because I was born with some innate sense of survival that dictated I would act confident and unscathed even when, in reality, I was hurting inside—well, does that mean that I got away with fewer scars and eventually the bullies stopped being bullies to me? (Again, except for the few who then took it to illegal proportions in high school.) What was the difference? I can see from our lives that the way we reacted in elementary school carried forward into how we reacted in adulthood to other situations and ended up in different places, mentally and emotionally.
These are thoughts I’ve been debating and thinking about a lot lately. I don’t know if I’ll ever fully understand it.
I dunno, my growth was rather weird. I was a bit nervous and uncertain at times in elementary school, but I had a lot of friends and did okay. That didn’t work so well once I moved, though.
Since the fairly crummy junior high years (they weren’t all bad, but they were the worst of me for dealing with people at school), though, things got a lot better for me, and I really think it had a lot to do with confidence and learning to be myself. It’s been a slow process all the way up until now, but I can safely say I’m a lot different confidencewise, how I handle other people, etc. than even a few years ago. Not saying I’m all good now, not by a long shot, but while I can see me in the kid I was, there is also a lot that is very different.
And it’s kind of weird that I ended up as I have. *sighs* There still is a lot I wish I had handled better, though.