Sticks and Stones
And words as well...
It was a relaxing summer day at the neighborhood pool. An overweight woman pulled herself up the ladder and paused in a puddle to get her breath. I winced when a tiny 3-year old girl watched her and announced, “That guy's fat!”
My legs folded. I sank beneath the surface and darted away, embarrassed. By the time I came up for air, her mother was rushing the little innocent toward the locker room.
"Don't EVER say ANYTHING like that again! You hurt her feelings!"
Now we were all ashamed. And although we wanted to, none of us would soon forget this moment. Words carry a powerful punch.
In my teaching days, I offered strategies to my Middle School students for preventing the blow of cruel remarks, first by abstaining from making them.
"You don't have to go for the cheap laugh. Haven't you ever been the butt of a joke?" Of course they have.
"You don't have to put someone down to feel good about yourself. Think how the other person feels." They think they can't afford to.
"Sometimes you just have to pretend you don't care what people say. Just walk away." They think I don't know what I'm talking about.
They think I don't know what I'm talking about.
My own system for surviving the post puberty obsession with peer approval was to alternate between squinting and sleepwalking through most of high school. In effect, I said good night when I was twelve and woke up at eighteen, packed and ready to escape to a small liberal arts college out of state.
Oh, there were some vivid nightmares during that long nap. I remember a lot of ugly pimples and oily skin. No one monitored how I spent my lunch money, so for six years I approached the glass-enclosed snack display like a zombie every day at exactly the same time. I bought the same three items from the same woman in white: a Three Musketeers, a bag of Fritos, and a box of Luden’s Cherry Cough Drops.
In that recurring dream, the entire cafeteria was a sea of unfocused faces, a wobbly abstract watercolor painting. I navigated through this crowd with the same acute sense of hearing that kept me moving and dangerous on the tennis court. But I refused to wear the dorky glasses that sharpened the edges and brought things in about a hundred-fifty feet.
In that recurring dream, the entire cafeteria was a sea of unfocused faces, a wobbly abstract watercolor painting.
I only hoped that I was as fuzzy as everyone else. I aimed toward one edge of the din, groping for a vacant table to consume my addictions in anonymity. One day as I settled into that island of familiar smells and tastes and textures, a form emerged from the mist and beckoned me.
“Moi?” I gestured in astonishment.
“Come to me,” he re-beckoned.
I waded toward the vision in slow motion, and finally recognized him. He was the handsome and talented rookie quarterback on my big brother’s football team. Yes, I had shagged balls for them in the field behind our house last summer! He’s sitting at a table with the jocks and he wants to ask me something. I imagine he’s already told them I’m a pretty good receiver.
Yes, I had shagged balls for them in the field behind our house last summer! He’s sitting at a table with the jocks and he wants to ask me something.
“HEY, WHATEVER HAPPENED TO THAT GUY?”
I can’t think what he’s referring to, but I keep smiling as I glide closer, thrilled that everyone will notice me with this elite group.
“WHERE DID HE GO? WHAT HAPPENED TO HIM?”
“I don’t know who you’re talking about. What guy?”
“THE GUY WHO RAN OVER YOUR FACE!”
Boy, was there a riotous burst of laughter! Boy, was I a good sport! I had practiced in the mirror, rehearsing for a big moment like this. I could roll my eyes, raise one eyebrow, flare my nostrils, pout and pucker. But right now I had no idea what to do with my face.
Somehow I covered it and lurched away, scooping up the last of the corn chips and cough drops at my table. I was in a hurry to disintegrate.
I burst into the nearest restroom and pushed past the smokers, choking. Please let me make it into a stall before my face breaks the rest of the way.
I holed up there for about forty minutes, till all the lunch periods were over, the bathroom finally empty and quiet. There was no more tissue on the roll, so I came out and wet some paper towels. I squinted at the mirror. It looked like I had been run over.
Eventually the horror subsided and my sense of humor returned. Actually pretty cool of him to pick me to take the joke. In a way kind of a feather in my cap.
Over the years, legions of children have cringed at this story and felt sorry for me. But then we shared personal stories from both sides of the fence and considered the separate concepts of forgiving and forgetting.
I squinted at the mirror. It looked like I had been run over.
I often wonder whatever happened to that guy.
Your words and art bring beauty and light and humor into this deep painful memory. I bet almost all of us can relate and remembered horror stories of our own when reading this, Sher.
I get it. And I have a picture in my head of that table of jocks. I recognize them. They show up in different stages of my life, with different faces, but always with the same attitudes.