I remember an incident before summer ended, school began, and life began to feel like it would never end.
I was helping settle a dispute between a group of arguing children, and the story begins something like this...
The sun raps down hard on our backs as shouting reaches an unbearable pitch. Two groups of children prepare for battle, drawing an invisible line across the basketball court.Vicious girls and angry boys alike growl and hiss over a small red ball, currently in the boys' possession. However, unlike the girls, the boys are enjoying this. More importantly, unlike the boys, the girls are beginning to pick up rocks and sticks.
"Hey!" I shout, as I reach them. "Boys! Scatter!" I push several of them away. "Move it! Go!" Intimidated, they flinch backwards, and then quickly move away from me.
"But!" the girls immediately respond. I silence them quickly with a glare. Its just too hot for this. Nevertheless, some of the girls are persistent.
"That was ours!" she cries out. "It's not fair! They're mean people!"
"Yeah!" other girls join in. "Boys are dumb! Everyone knows that! They're mean, dumb and stupid!"
"Quiet!" I shout impatiently. It's only until I shout myself hoarse that they finally calm down. And when they do, I ask, "How is picking up sticks and rocks going to fix this? Throw them away!"
Reluctantly they move. Some begin to give excuses and answers, but a single look is enough to keep their fragments from maturing into sentences.
"How many of you consider yourselves to be nice people?" I demand, exasperated by their attitude. "Just raise your hand; tell me if you think you're a nice person. If you don't raise your hand, I'm assuming that you think you're a bad person."
Hands shoot up. I roll my eyes. Nearly every girl who was picking up weapons has raised her hand. However, there is one kind, but lazy girl who has not raised her hand. I don't remember her name, but I remember her face; it was kind and round; she was generally quiet, but always went out of her way to help others out, especially when no one would thank her in return.
After I dispersed the mob, I tracked her. When she saw me she smiled; it was a good sign as it meant that she had been paying attention to me before. If she didn't like me, she would have ignored me in the first place.
"Why didn't you raise your hand?" I asked. "All the other girls did it."
"I'm not very nice, though." she says. Then she pauses.
"Really?" I say. "Are you sure? You help out others all the time."
"I don't know," she says, a bit distracted. "But...being mean means that when I'm mean, it's ok. And being nice means a lot more. I think. " She looks at me, her mouth slightly agape. "What do you think?"
"Who are you mean to?" I ask. "Is it just one person?"
She nods. "I'm always mean to my sister. I don't know why, but I have to blame her and interrupt her and say she's stupid."
"Is she?" I ask. "She's only a year younger than you."
"No!" she replies firmly. "I'm just...to her, I'm really mean. I don't like it. But she is my bestest friend in the world. And all her other friends are mean to her! Somehow it makes her laugh, but when I do it..."
It's a desperate look on her face. Within a moment, though, it wipes away.
"It doesn't matter." She says. "I'm a mean person, and that's it. Mean people never change." Then, as whimsical as the wind, she flickers off to some of her friends.
And I still wonder: how many of her words were her own? And how many were her sister's? And most importantly, how many did she really mean?
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