The Outcast
When I was a teenager, we lived in an upper middle class community. Everyone's father worked as an engineer or researcher for Generous Electric. My family was a bit of an anomaly, as my father was a "lowly" computer informations systems specialist. No one back then had a clue what that meant -- laughable now to remember having to explain it to people -- and if he were starting out in that field today, he'd be getting paid as much as the fathers who were engineers and researchers. But still, he worked for -- ugh I can hardly cough it out, I hate the company so much -- GE, and we lived the GE family life.
My parents overstretched on the housing budget to get us into that area so we would be in a good school district. So there I was, living in our suburban raised ranch house -- nestled among colonials and split-levels and ranches and other raised ranches -- living the upper middle class life, riding the bus with everyone who was just like me, or at least close to being just like me. This was not a school district where kids got free or reduced price lunches. We were all middle class and lived comfortable lives.
Except for the one girl. The outcast.
There was one house on our bus route that was a ramshackle of a dwelling. It leaned precipitously on its foundation, the yard was untidy, and, from what I hear from those who ever went inside it, it would have been a candidate for the Hoarders TV show. And this one girl lived in this house and she was overweight like poor people often are, because healthy food is incredibly expensive in this society while high calorie junk food is cheap, and she lived in this rickety old house -- it was eventually bulldozed -- and she wore old, gray, dingy clothes, and she smelled.
And everyone picked on her. I remember the day she was waiting at the bus stop the first day after Christmas break in sub-freezing temps proudly wearing a new outfit she had gotten for Christmas, bright pink velvet hot pants -- which, for those who did not grow up in the 70s, are very short shorts -- and a matching top. The students on the bus howled in laughter. The hot pants fad had, unfortunately, gone by the wayside, and hot pants were never designed to be worn by the non-thin. I died a silent death for her.
Who did this girl pick to sit with every day on our ride into school? Me. Because, I think, she felt safe with me. I was the one person on the bus who wouldn't pick on her or turn away in disgust or scrunch against the window to get away from her or deliberately sit further back in the bus the next time to make sure she wouldn't sit with me.
And I was usually alone in my seat because I was a pariah too, for sitting with this girl and not being part of the bully crowd. This wasn't one or two bullies picking on her; this was an entire bus full of junior and senior high kids being their junior/senior high meanest. I have to admit with shame in looking back, that I wasn't exactly friendly with her and we didn't chat all the way on our ride in, but I did say hello and I didn't pick on her.
On top of all her other setbacks in life, she was an epileptic, and one day she had a seizure on the bus while sitting next to me, and toppled over onto me -- her body jerking violently -- and everyone on the bus was staring at the two of us and I thought, "Why me? Why do I have to be sitting next to her when there's this huge big scene going on?" It was only adding attention to the fact that she sat with me, and I felt my pariah status growing exponentially.
I am so ashamed of those feelings now. Of course I should have been worried about her and I should have been thinking, "What can I do to help this poor girl who is having a seizure because she has a condition she didn't ask for and certainly would rather not have?" But I was a teenager too, and at that moment I was more worried about myself than I was about her.
But the next day, she sat next to me on the bus and I silently prayed that she wouldn't have another seizure, but I wasn't mean to her and I didn't pick on her.
And now all these years later, as I look back on my high school years, this is what I have to say to all those who refused to associate with me because I associated with her: The fuck with you. If you were so small-minded that you would pick on someone who had no choice in her lot in life, and refused to associate with me because I did associate with her, then I didn't need you. Back then, as a teenager, I felt like I did, but now, looking back over the decades through the lens of knowing pain and rejection and the unfairness of life, I'm glad I sat with her. I'm glad she had one person on that bus she felt safe with. I'm glad I never picked on her. I'm glad I didn't laugh at her Christmas outfit. I'm glad I was a better person than that. I wish I could have been even better. I wish I would have been her friend.
My parents overstretched on the housing budget to get us into that area so we would be in a good school district. So there I was, living in our suburban raised ranch house -- nestled among colonials and split-levels and ranches and other raised ranches -- living the upper middle class life, riding the bus with everyone who was just like me, or at least close to being just like me. This was not a school district where kids got free or reduced price lunches. We were all middle class and lived comfortable lives.
Except for the one girl. The outcast.
There was one house on our bus route that was a ramshackle of a dwelling. It leaned precipitously on its foundation, the yard was untidy, and, from what I hear from those who ever went inside it, it would have been a candidate for the Hoarders TV show. And this one girl lived in this house and she was overweight like poor people often are, because healthy food is incredibly expensive in this society while high calorie junk food is cheap, and she lived in this rickety old house -- it was eventually bulldozed -- and she wore old, gray, dingy clothes, and she smelled.
And everyone picked on her. I remember the day she was waiting at the bus stop the first day after Christmas break in sub-freezing temps proudly wearing a new outfit she had gotten for Christmas, bright pink velvet hot pants -- which, for those who did not grow up in the 70s, are very short shorts -- and a matching top. The students on the bus howled in laughter. The hot pants fad had, unfortunately, gone by the wayside, and hot pants were never designed to be worn by the non-thin. I died a silent death for her.
Who did this girl pick to sit with every day on our ride into school? Me. Because, I think, she felt safe with me. I was the one person on the bus who wouldn't pick on her or turn away in disgust or scrunch against the window to get away from her or deliberately sit further back in the bus the next time to make sure she wouldn't sit with me.
And I was usually alone in my seat because I was a pariah too, for sitting with this girl and not being part of the bully crowd. This wasn't one or two bullies picking on her; this was an entire bus full of junior and senior high kids being their junior/senior high meanest. I have to admit with shame in looking back, that I wasn't exactly friendly with her and we didn't chat all the way on our ride in, but I did say hello and I didn't pick on her.
On top of all her other setbacks in life, she was an epileptic, and one day she had a seizure on the bus while sitting next to me, and toppled over onto me -- her body jerking violently -- and everyone on the bus was staring at the two of us and I thought, "Why me? Why do I have to be sitting next to her when there's this huge big scene going on?" It was only adding attention to the fact that she sat with me, and I felt my pariah status growing exponentially.
I am so ashamed of those feelings now. Of course I should have been worried about her and I should have been thinking, "What can I do to help this poor girl who is having a seizure because she has a condition she didn't ask for and certainly would rather not have?" But I was a teenager too, and at that moment I was more worried about myself than I was about her.
But the next day, she sat next to me on the bus and I silently prayed that she wouldn't have another seizure, but I wasn't mean to her and I didn't pick on her.
And now all these years later, as I look back on my high school years, this is what I have to say to all those who refused to associate with me because I associated with her: The fuck with you. If you were so small-minded that you would pick on someone who had no choice in her lot in life, and refused to associate with me because I did associate with her, then I didn't need you. Back then, as a teenager, I felt like I did, but now, looking back over the decades through the lens of knowing pain and rejection and the unfairness of life, I'm glad I sat with her. I'm glad she had one person on that bus she felt safe with. I'm glad I never picked on her. I'm glad I didn't laugh at her Christmas outfit. I'm glad I was a better person than that. I wish I could have been even better. I wish I would have been her friend.
Thanks for sharing such a beautiful and tragic piece of your past. I have many moments from my teenage years that I would do differently if given the chance.
ReplyDeletei appreciate this. and i agree....those who have issues with us are those who have the problem; even into adulthood and beyond. i too wish i could do things differently then i did. we can always be better. and we can make up for that now. which i know you have. hugs and blessings.
ReplyDeleteThis is so powerful. I'm sure most of us wish we could do some do-over from our childhood. I bet that girl, she remembers you, the one person who let her be soft in a hard hard world. Man kids and people can suck.
ReplyDelete