On the day Wild-child was to begin the second semester of Grade One, her mom and sister walked with her through the park to the school. Mommy kissed Wild-child goodbye, and Wild-child lined up with the other kids on the playground to get ready to go to the new class. Wild-child saw Geoff and waved heartily at him, but Geoff just stared at Wild-child as if she had a lobster growing out of her skull. He ignored her throughout first recess, and at lunch Wild-child approached Geoff and asked him what was the trouble.
Wild-child: Hey. How come you won’t talk to me?
Geoff: My dad told me I couldn’t talk to you anymore. We can’t be friends.
Wild-child: Why not? Did your dad say why we couldn’t play together?
Geoff: Yeah, he said I shouldn’t be playing with little girls who don’t act like girls.
Wild-child: What do you mean? I’m a girl, I’m only a tomboy.
Geoff: Dad says girls like you are freaks because you pretend to be boys and you need to learn your place. Go away, I don’t want to talk to you anymore. We can’t be friends anymore, I’ll get in trouble.
And with that, Wild-child’s friendship with Geoff promptly ended.
That afternoon after school, Wild-child told her mom what Geoff had said to her. Her mom consoled her and told her to just keep being herself, and not to worry, she’ll make friends. People will see, you’re a special girl, you’ll make friends, Mommy said. But that wasn’t Wild-child experience each day. Every lunch, Wild-child would wind up eating by herself, or with the little handicap girl she would sometimes play with. The girls wouldn’t sit with her, because she was weird and didn’t like to wear dresses. Wild-child’s mom started forcing Wild-child to wear dresses, to conform and hopefully make friends, but Wild-child secretly stowed an extra pair of jeans in her locker at school, and every time her mom sent her to Glen Eagle Elementary in a dress, Wild-child would change into her spare jeans and t-shirt when Mom wasn’t around.
Things were lonely for a time, and Wild-child focused her attention on her studies rather than on her social standing. That was how it went, until a group of boys started calling her names. At first, the names were like whispers on wind, uttered under the breath of children as though they hadn’t said a thing. Their sideways glances gave them away, and their blatant absolution only revealed their guilt. The origin of the name-calling was Geoff, who was quite popular as he often had many M.U.S.C.L.E. men to trade with. Wild-child suspected he had stolen some of hers during lunch, but she couldn’t say or do much about it. One day during a spelling Bee, Wild-child was in the back of the class and while the teacher was talking, Wild-child let go of a large, smelly, and rather large fart. She couldn’t do anything about it, she was nervous about the Bee. The teacher stopped talking, and the entire class turned to look at Wild-child, whose cheeks had turned a bright red, the colour of her Pterodactyl T-shirt.
Teacher (with everyone watching, and some grimacing at the foul stench emanating from the back of the classroom): Wild-child, what do you say when you do that?
Wild-child: ...Pardon me. I had cabbage last night that did not agree with me.
Some of the boys chortled. None of the girls laughed. The Grade-One teacher just stared at Wild-child for a long while, until the class was underneath a cloud of awkward silence and lingering kidfart that was so dense you could cut it with a knife.
The teacher never really liked Wild-child much. Wild-child suspected the lady didn’t like Americans, but she couldn’t be sure. Seeing as the point had been made, and Wild-child was the focal point of enforcing social norms, things were rough on the playground for a while. Mocking whispers became blatant curses, and Wild-child started going home for lunch each day.
4 comments:
I think you are a very gifted writer. I remember these stories, or some of them, but it is as if I am hearing them again for the first time, yet it is able to bring me back to that time when the stories were happening in real time.
Thank you for your vote of confidence, Molly, it is very appreciated. I will need your memory of things in the future, as mine is laden with holes. It's good to hear that the stories can have the effect of bringing you back to that place, that's encouraging! Must be doing something right :D
I like your stories and agree with Molly that you are a very gifted writer. I always love reading your words/works. Even your emails are enjoyable. Your stories bring up thoughts and memories of my own childhood, albeit very different experiences, in ways that are also good to have, so it's not only cleansing for you when you write such things, but cleansing and revealing because of what it exposes in the mind of the reader. It also makes me want to write my own story. I like seeing your thoughts in various formats, live and in person, on social media, on blogs, etc. Good stuff.
@Colorado Springs Doula: It is good to know that the writing inspires others to write and connect with their inner selves. I strive to write experiences which are applicable on some level to more than myself, and it is good to know that this writing medium is having that effect. I would look forward to reading your stories.
Post a Comment