A Truth
When I was a child, I spent several summers at a school called Steppingstone, which is apparently for gifted children. I remember absolutely nothing about he curriculum, but recess was fun at least. I probably made more friends in that institution than in any other, and I wish I could have maintained contact with them afterwards as we all went to separate school districts and grew up apart.
I went over the years to two different locations, the latter of which was full of people I came to like, as well as many I didn't. People formed cliques even then, and there were roaming gangs of bullies in the playground who mostly got on peoples' nerves because everyone was the same size back then. I'm not sure why a school oriented toward gifted children could foment bullies, but such was the case.
In the former, however, I was more reserved. I had not yet devised my practical theory of friendship (to wit: approach a group who seems interesting and join in as if I was invited), so I spent much time idly observing the others in a dispassionate sort of way, as I am still inclined to do in social settings. There was, however, one person I got along with.
It was a girl. I seem to remember that she was blonde, but any other details have been erased with time, and at that age it's unlikely she had very unique features. She and I were the best of friends, despite sexist scorn from others who had learned from television that the opposite sex had cooties, and spent recesses merely walking and talking while the rest of the class engaged in whatever physical activity they could concoct with the playground equipment at hand. I remember sitting at a fence, watching leaves fall in the shade and insects crawl, while discussing what seemed at the time to be matters of deep philosophical import, though it may have been cartoons.
And then one day, while I was emerging out of the school building to find her, our recess times being staggered, she fell off the slide and broke her arm. I was terrified, because I had no knowledge of broken arms or what to do with them, because her agonised screams were heart-rending, and because I was bewildered by the unexpectedness of the entire situation. I was also conflicted, because I knew that my presence would be comforting to her, and yet I was rooted to the spot, unable to move, standing at the opposite end of the playground while the teachers tried to maintain order among the gawking children and soothe the girl at the same time until an ambulance arrived.
I was ashamed by my inability to help, but moreso by my inability to try. When she returned a week later with a cast, I avoided her out of mortification, unable to express my shame and also afraid of being blamed, of being called out for what I thought of as my responsibility for the situation. The summer came to an end without us speaking again, and she went away and we never saw each other again as far as I know.
I've seen many people in my life who were in need of help. Very seldom have I gone to help them. In the event, I've always created justifications, pointed out my inexperience with the problem and lack of obligation to get involved in the problems of a stranger. But each time I've also kicked myself for cowardice, hating my lack of resolve to go and at least try to remedy the situation somewhat by at least providing calming words. And each time I've resolved not to let it happen again. Never, so far, have I followed through on this resolution.
I wish I could remember her name.
I went over the years to two different locations, the latter of which was full of people I came to like, as well as many I didn't. People formed cliques even then, and there were roaming gangs of bullies in the playground who mostly got on peoples' nerves because everyone was the same size back then. I'm not sure why a school oriented toward gifted children could foment bullies, but such was the case.
In the former, however, I was more reserved. I had not yet devised my practical theory of friendship (to wit: approach a group who seems interesting and join in as if I was invited), so I spent much time idly observing the others in a dispassionate sort of way, as I am still inclined to do in social settings. There was, however, one person I got along with.
It was a girl. I seem to remember that she was blonde, but any other details have been erased with time, and at that age it's unlikely she had very unique features. She and I were the best of friends, despite sexist scorn from others who had learned from television that the opposite sex had cooties, and spent recesses merely walking and talking while the rest of the class engaged in whatever physical activity they could concoct with the playground equipment at hand. I remember sitting at a fence, watching leaves fall in the shade and insects crawl, while discussing what seemed at the time to be matters of deep philosophical import, though it may have been cartoons.
And then one day, while I was emerging out of the school building to find her, our recess times being staggered, she fell off the slide and broke her arm. I was terrified, because I had no knowledge of broken arms or what to do with them, because her agonised screams were heart-rending, and because I was bewildered by the unexpectedness of the entire situation. I was also conflicted, because I knew that my presence would be comforting to her, and yet I was rooted to the spot, unable to move, standing at the opposite end of the playground while the teachers tried to maintain order among the gawking children and soothe the girl at the same time until an ambulance arrived.
I was ashamed by my inability to help, but moreso by my inability to try. When she returned a week later with a cast, I avoided her out of mortification, unable to express my shame and also afraid of being blamed, of being called out for what I thought of as my responsibility for the situation. The summer came to an end without us speaking again, and she went away and we never saw each other again as far as I know.
I've seen many people in my life who were in need of help. Very seldom have I gone to help them. In the event, I've always created justifications, pointed out my inexperience with the problem and lack of obligation to get involved in the problems of a stranger. But each time I've also kicked myself for cowardice, hating my lack of resolve to go and at least try to remedy the situation somewhat by at least providing calming words. And each time I've resolved not to let it happen again. Never, so far, have I followed through on this resolution.
I wish I could remember her name.