finer moments
I had two friends growing up in primary school. I use the term loosely, like I do for most people to be honest. More or less they turn out to be acquaintances, but we’ll go with friends here because it’s easier. Both of them boys, serving different purposes in my life as all people, friends or not, do. One, K, helped my let out my creative side, singing, dancing and writing, making music. He was popular, but in a different way to the other popular boys. He was gentle and sensitive. This isn’t what attracted me to him. I didn’t need that. I wasn’t like the other girls who would fawn over his charm, however stupid that may sound for six-, seven-, eight-year olds. He just helped me get out of myself and made me feel popular just by being around him. Though, of course I wasn’t.
Then there was the other boy, J, born twenty days apart from me, my next door neighbour, in the same school year and in the same class for seven years. He was more my speed. He wasn’t sensitive or charming or popular. He was rough and South London ready, outdoorsy and crude. He was the male version of me. And we were inseparable best friends. Outside of school.
In school, he had his group of friends, a little outcast of four boys including him. We would play together from time to time. J would sit next to me in class - mostly so I could help him with his work, but he never took advantage of me with it. I knew he appreciated me helping him with his literacy and he was already amazing at numeracy. But as with many state schools, they find fault in one thing and they think you can’t do anything, so because he wasn’t particularly good at English, spelling “with” wiv (though, who knew he was on to something there) he was lumbered in a group wiv his bande a part for all set subjects.
These other three boys picked on me. I say “picked on” because it seems less harsh than bullied. I was bullied. J didn’t really participate in this. But he didn’t stop it either. I don’t blame him. He was young and naive and kids don’t know how much shit hurts. They just see an easy target and go for it. I did.
As with every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction. A group of four outcast boys equalled and opposed by a group of four misfit girls. I wasn’t the only one to be bullied by these boys or any of the other kids in my school. These girls got it too. One of the girls walked with an inturned foot. Everyone had a crack at that, mocking her, taunting her with imitations of her ailment. Even with everything I was going through, I still couldn’t stop myself. I don’t know why, or how, what reason or anything, all I remember is the moment. I was chasing her across the playground and down the steps that led up to the classrooms. She tripped and fell. Landing on her face, open wound scratches bleeding across her cheek and nose. The moment any child is caught doing something they’re not supposed to be doing, it’s all apologies over and over. Sorry. Sorry. Sorry. Sorry. Sorry. I picked her up and helped her over to the medical room. I sat there with her for the rest of playtime. Not one of my finer moments.