Issue #13 For Better Or For Worse
Forgiveness. Or Not…
Sometimes funny. Sometimes inspirational. Always True.
That subheading really gets at the heart of what I’ve always attempted to do with my blogging and poetry. Whether a piece is funny or not, it always comes from the heart. Including today’s backstory behind the above poem. This one is most definitely not funny.
But it’s certainly true.
When I was in school, the powers that be decided the best way to arrange classroom seating was alphabetically.
While this let teachers happily off the hook regarding any stressful seating arrangement decisions, it also created a situation where you could find yourself sitting next to the same person from first grade all the way to eighth grade.
The alphabetical thing was not only restricted to seating – it extended to all “lining up to go somewhere” activities and transferred to locker assignments once we were old enough to be trusted with lockers. I think that was third grade. I imagine prior to that our fluffy little heads couldn’t fathom combination locks or something.
So, for better or for worse, if your last name began with “M” you were tied to another “M” person for a possible eight years.
For me it was not for better. It was definitely for worse.
The boy’s name was Joe. That’s all I’m going to give you. I’d love to publicly shame him with a full name but I’m not going to.
Joe was a bully of the first order. It began with clever insulting twists on my name, snide remarks about my clothes, and jibes at my stature. By third grade it had escalated to actual physical attacks. Shin kicking, poking, pinching, hair pulling, and, on one memorable occasion, he slammed me into my locker.
How did he get away with this behavior you ask? Why didn’t someone shut him down?
Well, Joe was pretty clever. At age six he already knew he should be making sure his attacks had no witnesses. I could never provide any evidence. And he made it clear that he could, and would, make my life even worse if I told anyone. On one front, I was lucky. He never tried to assault me in any sexual way.
So, like most small frightened people, I didn’t say anything. Not to my teachers, not to my friends, not to my parents.
When I think back on this time, with all that I know now, I realize he was a sociopath and even quite possibly a psychopath.
Yes, even at that young age.
He knew what he was doing was wrong, took trouble to hide it and threatened me if I exposed him. He knew he had power over me and he took joy from that power. And he was charming to practically everyone else in the school so there was very little chance I would be believed if I spoke out.
I don’t spend much time in church any more but I remember a lot of talk there about how we need to forgive people.
I’d like to.
But I’m not there yet.
Copyright© 2023 Anne Morse Hambrock All rights reserved.
Events
Mark your calendars! I’m excited to announce that I will be one of the authors featured at the upcoming Kenosha Book Festival on Sunday afternoon June 25th. Here is a link with more details about the event.
Or, if you are on Facebook, there is an event page with more details here.
From The Garden
That blurry thing you see at the bottom of the photo is a cat. A cat of unknown provenance lounging in the bushes outside my dining room bay window. Where my dog can juuuuuuust see it. And lose her mind for 10 solid minutes of serious hackle raising and obnoxious barking.
The cat was unfazed….
Keep The Messages Coming!
A big “thank you” to all of you who have messaged me commented or hit “like” after reading my poems and commentary!
I appreciate the feedback and knowing how often I have struck a chord with your lives.
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