"My dad is better than your dad."
I remember wincing at the sentence that just came out of her mouth. Did she really understand the magnitude of that pithy phrase?
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| Chapman Elementary circa Brian's third grade days. Love the fashion! |
The third grade was so weird. At Chapman Elementary, a cluster of us were part of a bold new experience in education. To this day, I'm not sure what the point was, but up to that point in my life, this type of classroom was the only thing I associated with going to school. I had spent my first, second, and third grade years in the same "big room." At each corner was an independent classroom, each fairly open to the other. In the middle of the "big room" was a common space, where twice a day, the four independent clusters of kids would come together for music or a movie. For first grade, I was with Miss Ricks. Second grade was first with Mrs. Warden, then for again some reason I don't understand, was transferred to Mrs. Vertelle's corner of the "big room."
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| I'm pretty sure this is the "big room" today. Montessori, eh? There were lots of similarities between the "big room" and the Montessori way. Interesting. |
Mrs. McIntyre would be my teacher for third grade. All I really remember was how mean she could be, yet how much I loved and respected her. When my best friend's sister told me her dad was better than mine, I didn't cry. But even Mrs. McIntyre could tell something was wrong. In a private moment she asked me what was wrong, and I told her what the girl had said.
"Well, what does she know?"
I think that was meant to make me feel better, but I was still down. For the only time I can ever remember, Mrs. McIntyre then opened her arms, and invited me in for a hug. She said nothing else, and neither did I. My mind continued to race, after all, how could that girl know that her dad was better than my dad when she didn't even know my dad.
I didn't even know my dad.
My mom had raised my brother and me by herself for most of my life at that point, and would continue to be the sole parental influence until my teenage years. I'd like to think mom did a great job, but I'll leave that for you to decide.
I think my time in the 'big room" may have been insulating me from the real world. We'd go on the playground, and that's when we'd mix with the other kids at Chapman. That's when I found out there was another first, second, and third grade classroom on the other side of the school, and their teachers all gave homework! Can you believe it?
I had to ask a friend what 'homework' was.
Then again, maybe the "big room" was designed for something else. Because we were in such close proximity, I knew EVERYONE from all four classes in the big room. When I became a third-grader, I became a "leader" of sorts, and all the little kids looked-up to me and select others. We did everything together, and many times on the playground, watched out for each other. You may wonder how my best friend's sister was able to infiltrate our ranks? He was in the big room with me, and she attended class on the other side of the school. The only time we'd cross paths with her was at recess.
At 8 years old, I don't remember pondering or pouting too long after the "dad" comment. But when a similar incident happened in high school, I instantly remembered the bewildered confusion of the comment back in the third grade. Years later, I still didn't have a dad at home, yet someone else was convinced his dad was far supreme.
But that's when I also realized there are those who use words as weapons.
The motive is clear: They wanted to put me down. The reason behind the put-down always seemed to boil down to insecurities within themselves.
They were showing-off for others, or maybe overwhelmed by the truths of their own situations, or just plain and simple, needed to be better than me. They would tell untruths over and over, even though I wondered how could anyone believe this? They were always the loudest, most obnoxious voice in the crowd, to the point they were tough to ignore. And they never backed-down, placing all their personal chips on the bet I would break first. They had to be noticed, and they had to be liked.
I share this story with you as a means to try and make sense of things that do not make sense. When someone uses words that cut you down, demean you, or make you feel less of a person...it's likely not about you at all. Whether someone attacks your beliefs, politics, or personal convictions, my bet is that it's because they're not on solid footing with their own beliefs, politics, and convictions. Their playbook is predictable: The best way to make yourself feel better is to tear down those around you.
I've written about words used as weapons in the past, but never have I lived in a time when so many words ---- so many untruths ---- are being hurled by all sides, without a second thought to the damage being inflicted. If you're using words to attack someone else, I ask why? If it's because they're using offensive words or spewing untruths, it's my opinion their day will come. I would never sit here in my ivory tower and suggest I am not taking part, and I will admit every time I do, I ask myself "why?" I remind myself that being right is not on the priority list; being fair is. Fairness isn't just considering both sides, it's actually comprehending and acknowledging that we're not all the same.
Okay smarty, stop humming "Kum By Yah" (although if you knew the translation of the song is "Come by here, my Lord, come by here" you might agree we could definitely use some divine kindness and intervention, again just my opinion).
As for me, I'm going back to the "big room," with my eyes wide open, and my heart just as open. It's the place where I'm surrounded by all kinds of different people with different beliefs, yet we all agree that community, truth, and awareness trumps division, lies, and ignorance.
