When I was in 1st and 2nd grade, there was a little girl in my class named Shonda. She was little and timid, always speaking with quaver in her voice. Her skin was that really pale shade that almost makes a person look see-through. And she smelled. She smelled stale, like she didn't bathe regularly, or maybe wore the same clothes multiple times before they were washed. At the time, I thought it must have been a personal choice, like she wanted to be the smelly kid in our class. I didn't realize then that not every kid went home to loving, attentive parents who made sure hygiene was maintained. So I avoided her. I'm not sure how it happened, but suddenly one day, my mom announced that I was going to her house to play. The details are fuzzy on how my mom even knew who Shonda was; she wasn't a class parent, nor would I have been asking to spend any more time with her than was necessary in a school day. But she had already arranged it with Shonda's mom, and she didn't seem to understand that I viewed this as a punishment, not a reward. My mom drove me to Shonda's house on a Saturday, and I spent a few hours checking out her toys and going along with what she wanted to do, but was miserable throughout. It was such a relief when my mom came back for me.
Sometime later, we were at school with all the kids who were dropped off early by their working parents, and I was sitting in the line of my classmates on the dusty gym floor, when I was approached by the cool girls in our class, Celeste and Felicia. Celeste actually had pierced ears, and had beautiful, long black hair. At age 7, she was already a queen bee. Why was she talking to me? Because Shonda was in the corner crying. "So?" I asked, defensively. "You should go talk to her," Celeste commanded. "You're her friend." Okay, this had gone too far, I decided. Just because my mom had forced me to go to her house, didn't mean we were friends. And somehow other kids at school knew about it. I walked over to where Shonda sat crying with her head in her arms, and I told her I didn't want to be her friend. Which did nothing to alleviate her tears. I didn't know what else to do, so I walked back to where I had been before. Celeste was confused. I explained that I wasn't Shonda's friend, so please not to bother me about her crying. This was met with appropriate disdain, although I remember thinking at the time, You don't want to be her friend either, you're trying to pass the responsibility off on me.
Needless to say, I did not talk to Shonda again. I don't remember if she was in my class the next year, but by 6th grade I had moved to Ohio and lost touch with all of my elementary classmates. I appreciated the clean slate, that I could go to a school where no one knew that I had blown off the friendless girl crying in the gym. Of course, I knew even at the time that I was doing the wrong thing. But I didn't have enough maturity or compassion to see any other way to do it.
Flash forward 20 years. I am a stay at home mommy with a very active 1 year old son and a husband who works long hours and is finishing his degree. When summer comes, we are outside everyday that it is nice, and my son's love of dogs has us traversing the neighborhood, trying to find pooches that are outside, available to pet. This leads us to Amanda's house. Amanda lives on the corner, on the way to the playground. She has a beagle named Jack who is frequently tethered in the backyard, and his run reaches almost to the street, so we can go see him without really trespassing. The first time Amanda comes out to talk to us, I am instantly reminded of Shonda. She is in the first grade, is little with brown hair and freckles on her nose. She speaks quietly, with a lisp, and as she approaches, I smell her. In the intervening years, I have learned to identify these smells. First, there is the unwashed smell. Then there is the stale cigarette smell. And finally, the smell that I can only identify as the poor person smell. I don't know what generates it, but have only ever smelt it in the homes of people who are really down on their luck. I try to keep my own house just clean enough that it doesn't produce this smell. Amanda is eager to talk to us, and tell us about her dog, and show me that she can now do a cartwheel. Again, I recognize something that I didn't know back when I played at Shonda's house: that children who are desperate to gain the approval of strangers only do so because they don't get it from their family.
This time, I do the right thing. I talk to Amanda and tell her about my son and his love of dogs. The next time we are walking to the playground, she materializes as we pass her house and asks to come along. I agree, and maybe a little begrudgingly try to share the attention I would otherwise have focused entirely on my own child. The next week, James and I are playing in the front yard when Amanda rides by on her bike. She turns into our driveway and immediately joins in. I let her. This becomes a sort of regular occurrence. At one point, I meet her dad when we are once again admiring Jack the dog. He immediately sends up my nose-crinkle dislike dander, which intensifies when he speaks to his daughter. He is rude and arrogant and belittles her, and what's worse, he does it with an audience. I want to do something to interrupt him and reverse the words he's spoken, but I don't know how. Amanda and I spend the rest of the summer in an informal "Big Sister" role, hoping that my kindness will make a difference. When the school year starts, Amanda is obviously less available, and I become pregnant with my second child and spend the fall asleep on the couch. I am happy to see her riding bikes in the neighborhood with other girls around her age though. When the weather becomes nice again, James and I resume our neighborhood dog patrol, but we don't see Jack outside anymore. Then the high grass in the yard signals that the house, like others in our neighborhood, has been abandoned. Amanda and her family are gone.
Just two weeks ago, I took my three boys down to the playground. We passed the house that has been empty all these years and saw a moving truck in the yard. I looked for Amanda, but I didn't see her. While we were at the playground, she appeared. She came over to talk to me and meet my baby, although I don't think she recognized me. I was glad to see her, glad that she has continued to grow up, although disappointed that she still has that uncared for look and smell. Eventually, she remembered me, when she followed us home and played with the boys in the yard. She is 10 now, and has begun showing up at our house every day. I am once again trying to be intentionally nice to her, although she likes to give me advice about how I should decorate my house or get my baby to sleep through the night. I hope that I can show Amanda what love should be, and I hope that by doing the right thing this time, I can be forgiven for not being a friend to Shonda when she needed one.
No comments:
Post a Comment