Memory

It's interesting to think about the way our brains let us remember things. I hate it, but I can never remember the great thigns about my childhood as vividly as the bad things--the things I'm ashamed of, the things I wish now I could undo. I remember in elementary school there was this moment that I still think about. I'm still ashamed of the way that third grade me handled it.

Stephanie was a big girl--and I don't mean fat. She was BIG--two heads taller than anyone else in class --and broad in the shoulders. I was short for my age, and chubby, but she made me feel like a dwarf. It's never good to be different, no matter the age, but when you're 9, the tragedy seems worse. The taunting was terrible and relentless.

Stephanie carried herself like someone who wished she could disappear--shoulders hunched, trying hopelessly to seem smaller than they were, head down, her voice a quiet whisper. I can remember thinking she was a sweet girl--she wouldn't have hurt another person for anything in the world. That made the teasing much worse. You could see in her eyes how much it really, truly hurt her--she took every word to heart. It would have been better if she had lashed back, if she had lost her temper after one too many jabs, but she never did. She just took it.

Maybe it was that look in her eyes that made me do what I did. I don't remember exactly how it came about--maybe I defended her bravely in the face of jokes and jabs. More likely, I watched, upset for her, and went to her later in the library and decided we'd be friends. I have always hurt for the outcast and tried to do what I could to help. It wasn't uncommon for me to make firends with the problem kid in class--a by-product of my little brother actually being that kid. I knew I was doing the right thing. Stephanie needed someone who would be nice to her.

I wish I could go on from her here and tell you about how that day changed both our lives, that Stephani gained a true friend and we faced the taunting together. i wish I could say that eventually the taunting stopped and that my friendship with her helped change the way others saw Stephanie. I wish I could tell you about how we remained friends through high school, and how even now, we write each other occasionally, that she sends me pictures of her kids and that even though we never mention that awful year back in elementary school, it is always there, present in our love for each other. I wish I could.

But I can't. Maybe my childhood mind couldn't comprehend the fullness of what I had done. I had decided to be a friend to the friendless--I had reached out to someone who had no one else. Her need for acceptance had turned to blind desperation. My simple act of kindness was a breath of fresh air and she ran towards it with abandon, grateful she could breathe it in. Now everywhere I was, there was Stephanie. She wanted to sit next to me at lunch, in the library, she wanted to walk next to me to go to gym class. The more she was there, the more I could feel their eyes turn to me. I don't think I was shunned by anyone ese because of stephanie, but I could feel the possibility of it.....could smell the stink of it.

Suddenly I was terrified. I could be next! It never occurred to me that people might make fun of me for just associating myself with the outcast, but I knew it was coming, sooner or later.

Things changed again at the table in the library. And this is where my memory gets really vivid. I can tell you the color of the carpet, the color of the chairs. I was sitting at a table with my book and, of course, Stephanie sits across from me. She says something to me in her too high whisper, and looks at me with that desperate and incessant need. I snap. "Why don't you sit somewhere else" You're always following me!"

She's taken aback. Her eyes, a clear, washed out blue are hurt, surprised. I hate her for that look, because I instantly know how wrong this is.

"But, Amanda, I..." she stutters out.

"Look, I don't want you to sit here, ok? Just go find someone else to sit with"

I see tears prick the corners of her eyes. She says nothing--why won't she fight back?--just moves away, shoulders hunches, trying to disappear. I hate myself. I feel in the pit of my stomach what a terrible person I am. I know I can get up and say I'm sorry. I know that if I told her that I was just in a bad mood and we could still be friends she would tae me back instantly. Her eyes would light up and all would be forgiven. I know this is the right thing to do.

But I don't. I sit there, hating myself for my cowardice, hating that I can let others shape what I do. I'm miserable.

I don't remember what happened to Stephanie after that. I know that we probably all got bigger and that our bodies caught up to hers so that she seemed like much less of a freak. Maybe the teasing stopped or at least was limited to the those who remained bullies into their adolescense. I hope that she made it through school, grew into someone who wasn't bitter about her childhood and could open herself to the love of others. Maybe she got married, had kids. Maybe she works as a school counselor trying to help kids just like her.

Some part of me, probably the self-loathing part, believes that she didn't. Part of me believes that she became a bitter teen, dying her hair blackand lining her eyes with dark circles. That she became promiscuous, turning to sex to fill the her ache for aceptance. Or worse, drugs. Is it presumptuous of me to think that my actions could affect that much? Probably. But some part of me believes that every action could be that important in the lives of others. Sometimes we do hold that much power in the words we say. Who am I to say that I couldn't have made the positive difference in Stephanie's world?

Whether I made any difference in her world, good or bad, she made one in mine. Why else would I be talking about it 15 years later? She comes to my mind every now and then, usually when I am submerged in my own self-loathing. She reminds me not to let my fears rule me. Fear is debilitating--it makes you at once nothing like who you really are and yet it cuts quickly to the core of who you are to reveal the soft, dark underbelly of who you hide from the world. I try to remember the way her eyes looked that day in the library. I try to remember that feeling in my gut when I knew I had let fear win. Maybe I can walk away from my shame thankful for what it has given me.