There was a girl with strawberry blond hair woven into a braid that hung down the length of her back. Her blue eyes reflected the sky and absorbed everything beneath it as she sat next to the window in the school bus talking about Supergirl and Wonder Woman. About Spiderwoman and Batgirl and how Huntress had the best superhero costume because she wore a purple suit with a super cool mask.
She kept her hands tucked under the school bag on her lap. Kids are less likely to make fun of what they can’t see and this girl knew all about that, so her hands stayed hidden. If they had eight fingers and two thumbs like everyone else’s, it’d be different. She couldn’t conceal them all the time, but learning how to avoid drawing attention to them became second nature. A word like “syndactyly” was too strange and confusing for the first grade.
Every day, we hopped off the bus at the same stop. I raced to one side of the street and Gretchen to the other, her long braid bouncing as she bounded up the wooden steps to her front door. I dropped off my backpack, changed into play clothes, and checked in with my grandma. Who knows where my mom was. Maybe with her boyfriend. Maybe schlepping drinks at work. It didn’t matter.
Gretchen flew out the front door of her trailer across the street. Dressed in our after school clothes, we stood ready for adventure. The playground in front of our homes was small, drab, and dusty. It only had a couple of swings, but all you had to do was lay your belly on them and face the ground, then push yourself with your feet, spraying gravel behind you as you took off, and you were flying. Soaring through the sky, over the city like Wonder Woman or Supergirl. That’s how easy it was to reach the clouds back then.
There were little metal animals to ride. You know the ones. The kind mounted on screechy springs and always rough with a layer of rust, regardless of their age. In our playground, there was a horse, a pig, and a chicken that looked like she’d seen some shit. We knew they were for babies, and we weren’t babies, but we were young enough that we still had the power to transform any object into whatever we wanted. I was a 2nd grader and Gretchen was still in the 1st grade. So, when we mounted those springy cloven-hoofed beasts, and rocked back and forth as hard as we could, they became mighty steeds, soaring dragon companions, and badass motorcycles we expertly piloted in order to chase bad guys.
Next to our fantastic imaginarium, two real horses grazed in a tiny paddock enclosed by electric fencing. Once, we dared each other to touch the fence. Actually, never mind. That wasn’t the best day.
The point is, we were super-powered. Capable of bringing down villains and performing powerful magic. Every day Gretchen and I worked as a team, flying and fighting against evil doers and malcontents. Nothing could stop us.
Except me. I don’t recall what we fought about or what started it. It doesn’t matter. I remember the detail that has any real significance. I remember the moment Gretchen chose to walk away. She turned her back to me and began marching back home. Indignant, I hit her from behind and pushed her down.
She fell, and while on all fours in the hard gravel, she craned her neck to look up at me, the shock and fear in her eyes. The eyes that reflected the sky now brimming with tears. Watery mirrors reflecting my awfulness back at me. The differently formed hands she kept hidden beneath her school bag digging into the hard, dusty gravel. Sobbing, she rose to her feet and scurried back home.
Ashamed, I returned to my grandparents’ house. I retreated to my paper and scissors. I drew her a crown, and with my Crayons, added colors. Filled it with the finest, rarest jewels. Cut it out with my rounded scissors and secured it with tape. Now complete, it was strong and majestic. I went outside and picked flowers. I made a card that said I was sorry. My grandma saw what I was doing and asked why wasn’t I outside playing with Gretchen. I confessed my crime, and my grandmother, in her gentle way, agreed I had indeed fucked up and needed to fix it.
I was a year older than Gretchen. I was bigger. I felt certain that if I gave her something to elevate her above myself, to lift her back up after I’d knocked her down, I could atone.
When I knocked on her door, her dad answered. A big hairy guy who looked like Bluto from Popeye. I asked if I could see Gretchen, and he said, “no way.” I handed him my gifts and asked him to tell her I was sorry. He scolded me for pushing her. I repeated my apology and sulked away.
A little while later, there was a knock on the door of my grandparents’ house. I opened the door to find Gretchen wearing the crown, the already wilting flowers clumsily arranged in her braided hair. A big grin on her face, she said, “Look! I’m wearing my crown!” My shame was still heavy, but I saw her smile and knew she’d forgiven me.
I’d love to tell you how, at that moment, I learned my lesson. That I was a better person from then on, never to commit another act of assholery. That I was a living example of the meme about the two wolves, and from that day on, I only fed the good wolf inside me. But that wouldn’t be the truth. Fiction works that way, not fleshy, messy people. Like most people, there’s an entire pack of wolves inside me that don’t always get along. They’re more like the ragtag sled dog team from Call of the Wild than a clear-cut good and bad duo.
It’d be neat if I could wrap it all up in a neat bow. Put a moral on the story about how I pushed other women down. I forgot about the importance of sisterhood. I forgot we should elevate one another, lifting each other up when we can. That we should crown one another and regard each other as queens.
Because we absolutely fucking should.
I can’t do that, though. The facts are a complicated journey of more than four decades. I got older. I moved away. For a long time, I didn’t think of Gretchen. Then I did. I remembered her teary face looking up at me and thought about all the times since then that I’ve been a raging dick.
There was a girl on a playground who saw herself become a bully and experienced a special flavor of guilt tinged with self-loathing for the first time. I still hate bullies and have called a few out over the years. Maybe I couldn’t have done that if I hadn’t seen it in myself first. I dunno.
Too many people enjoy seeing others falling face-down into the gravel and bursting into tears. The number of people who will knock a more vulnerable person into the dirt while feeling no remorse seems to be increasing. I don’t know how to talk to those people. Maybe I did once, but not anymore.
Working together feels good. Seeing other people experience joy feels good. I don’t see any way to compromise with anyone who gets those same good feelings from cruelty. Attacking a more vulnerable person, or group of people, who aren’t looking for a fight is something terrible and that’s simple enough for a goddamn second grader to figure out.