ten years (boring revealing crap)

So I wanted to write something to Prove that I am Human (And sometimes I use capitals, yes..) I couldn't find anything Or think of something original so I dragged up this epithet: a Confession of fragility. enjoy, and stuff. Ten Years. September, 1991: First day of school - Ms. Loughlin's class. I remember the first day. Sitting on the floor of the Gym, the principal welcoming us to our first day in the Gifted program. I remember the way the teacher led us to the classroom, and divided us into groups. I can't remember what my group was, but I remember the cool kids were all Panthers. I remember sitting between Dickson and Matt. I remember Kristina, pigtails, ugly clothes and a whiney voice, two desks down, and how from the moment I saw her I hated her but knew she'd be my only friend in that class. I remember resolutions at the end of the school year - "THIS summer I'll lose 20 pounds, I'll work out every day, and when I come back to school everyone will like me." I would repeat those same words 3 years later, running to the bathroom in the middle of class. Even as I left, tears running down my face, they kept repeating the same thing: Fat thing. Fat thing. Fat thing. Oh, God --I couldn't believe you'd do that to me, Sam. You lived on my street, and when we waited for the bus to pick us up we would talk, you'd play songs on your walkman to me. I remember one day you came with a tape you were really excited about - a tape of your older brother's. "They're called New Order," you said, "and no one knows where they are!" Years later, I know who New Order are. I don't remember why you said "no one knows where they are"--but I remember you reading song lyrics to me like poetry. In the winter of grade 7, they moved our bus stop. It was closer to our houses, so it was okay, but there was no shelter from the cold wind. You and I stood there shivering, trying to work up the courage to ask the person in the house on the corner if we could stand on his enclosed porch. And when the school bus came, you went to the back and I stayed at the front. So why, Sam, how could you do this to me? Walking down the hall, I had no idea what was coming. I walked in the room and there you all were. "Look," you said, turning to me--"it's Fat Thing!" Then they all started repeating it. Tell me Sam, Dickson, Kenn - tell me all of you -- have you ever heard 15 people insulting you at once? Walking around you like a bad after school special, calling you fat? And I remember you, Matt, the only boy who came to my birthday party in grade seven. You bought me the Lisa Loeb cd, the one with the song "Stay" on it. I remember the huge crush I had on you, the only boy who was consistently nice to me. The boy who would always insult Neil when he picked on me, to turn the assault from me to him. And don't think I forgot you, Neil. Oh no - yours is a face that won't soon fade. I can remember your voice clearly, saying that I was ugly and no boy would ever like me. I still hear your words, but you made it so they come out of my own lips. I could always tell you were most like me, though - I had a knack for spotting the ill-adjusted kids. I remember calling you from Emily's house, and asking you out--playing up to my white trash image by talking dirty and coming on too strong--then hanging up and laughing with my friends about what a loser you were. I wanted to write more here, to reveal all the things you did to me - all of you, the Gifted class of 2001 - but, as I write more, less becomes distinct and revenge doesn't seem as sweet to my lips anymore. Instead, I give you this: I forgive you, and it's okay if you don't know why I'm saying this at all. None of you were bad, and though I hated you and cried because of you, and though I still have problems to deal with, I don't feel the anger anymore. I guess I'm getting old now, and I really don't see any point in hating anymore. I guess the truth is, and I know it sounds cliche: you were like a family to me. Ten years ago I met you, and I'm here again ready to say goodbye. The good memories will overpower the bad in the end, and tears can be wiped away as cleanly as a chalkboard when Miss Clarke was through with it. Good luck. Written February 10th, 2002 © on Feb 10 2002 01:16 PM PST   18 • 0 • 12