Roar
Greg John is author of Notes from the Playground, a book of stories documenting how childhood experiences — especially those that happen on the blacktop — shape who we become.
Four fifth grade girls stood in a tight circle at the foursquare court. Arms folded and jaws tight, they leaned in, cutting sideways glances toward a ten year old named Wanda. Wanda, in her homemade, floral print dress and new sneakers, looked down. She stood ten yards away.
I had seen this formation — ‘ in’ versus ‘out ’ — a thousand and two times. Tamara, Vicki, Janisha, and Ella were pint-sized power-brokers, committed to casting shade on others with gestures as simple as eye rolls. Wanda must have just received their verdict.
When you get banished on a playground, you have nowhere to go and no place to hide. Instead, you get shunned in place, under a full sun. Rejection lasts as long as it suits the whims of the self-anointed. I couldn’t let this one go.
“Tamara” I shouted, “Bring your friends here please.”
The four approached, arms still folded. Then I called Wanda.
“Sit. All of you. We need to talk.”
When children hate, I make them sit side by side — close as can be. Hate requires energy to sustain, and children tire when they have to hold up big hatreds.
I asked all five girls who to blame for the big bad mood stinking up the playground. Janisha spoke first, tossing Wanda over within seconds and using her raised index finger to bullet her points:
Talking too much. Stupid haircut. Telling lies about Tamara. Funny smelling in wet weather. The list went on, but then came the clincher: “We just don’t want her near us.”
Janisha popped out the list with such practiced speed, that I couldn’t stop her and couldn’t prepare Wanda to receive the snark. Wanda winced at each punctuated point. Janisha’s statement concluded and then came a long, odd pause.
I saw Wanda swallowing what Janisha had said. She sat for a moment, trembling, and then came a window-shaking roar which went something like: “Stop it! Stop! You hate on me when you don’t even know my last name!”
When the shock waves receded, I asked Vicki and Ella: “What is Wanda’s last name?”
None of them knew. Not even the first letter! I looked at the four of them and then at Wanda. Now it was my turn to feel raw inside.
But I also held on to hope. This blacktop grit is where we first learn how to really see others; where — little by little — we learn to empathize. Whether we were ‘in’ or ‘out’ on the playground, we always have the option to choose empathy.
