A sad what-if scenario
Alternate 1973: The year I might have killed myself
What if Garron never moved into Adams County District 12?
My own imagined “Hanging Tree”
It might have been worse. Heck, I might have even decided I’d had enough in Fourth Grade.
I was an informal day-prisoner in the Woodglen “Elem-enitentiary,” relegated to loosely enforced Solitary at recess’s furthest edges. I did attempt several forays into the center, however ill-advised.
The playground had its fiefdoms, from overzealous marbler dukes to the boy-kings of the sports arena. Always on the lookout for opportunities to lord it over others.
The worst was the dictatorship of vindictive girls in the Four-Square court. Miss Melanie, a junior Hitler-Youth Ant Queen, assumed control and would call “Round-the-World” when any unapproved new player entered their colony. The play would continue like that until Melanie would announce “break,” unspool four of her formican arms and bounce the ball into my square such that I couldn’t catch it and make my own choice. The next passive-aggressive future DAR Member would catch it and sing-song “You’re out.”
Back to the boonies!
My isolation continued into the classroom. Like the students, teachers weren’t on my side as was established quite early in third grade. While I waited for the bus on the corner of Dean and Truda that first day of school, 1973, I mused on these acidic expectations.
Home offered no ease either. My parents had their own notion of who I was, and they supported this mythical kid. (“Oh, you got a stellar report card! How nice that you talk with the priests at church. You’re a good boy who doesn’t rock the boat.”)
But the real me? Not so much. (“We only have tough kids.” ”Only crazy people go to see shrinks — why would you ever think of it?” “You put too much value on having friends, and what’s wrong with the kids on our block?” “Are you going to befriend another kid who’s not white?”)
We all lived in Christians/Capitalists/Children Using Nasty Tactics culture. From my estimation we still do.
I was already susceptible to cracking. Not far really from beginning to look at how I could do it — kill myself.
Now, there’s a project!
I could watch the janitor and where he kept some of his supplies and tools. See if he had a long bit of rope or if there was something available in the gym. Heck — why rope? I could take a couple of Dad’s old belts and attach them together if I needed to. I’d seek hiding places. Having spent my recesses at the edges of the playground, I spied a solid tree that stood by a creek with an accessible branch that would hold my weight. I was a big kid after all.
I had the date picked out. On my mother’s birthday, I would stow my stuff in my hiding place. At the end of the day, I’d pretend to go to the bathroom and abscond into my hiding place. Wait until the teachers left and steal out with my long belt, a bucket to stand on, and my backpack with my suicide note. Fashion my belt noose and tie it to the branch. Nice and tight. Slip my head into a makeshift noose, and step onto the bucket.
Kick off and let gravity do its work, wondering about who would find me. Would it be my parents? Coming to the school to see if I was still there? Neighbor kids who thought I was playing? A random jogger?
And what would life be like after I was gone? Oh, I’m sure my mother would eat it up. She liked it when people gave her sympathy and maybe it would help her to finally divorce my dad.
Would my suicide awaken my dad enough to cause him to give up drinking? Maybe he’d have to lose it all before he went to AA, but he might have sobered up.
I bet my brother and sister would have been mad at me — like they weren’t already. They’d forever be the kids whose brother decided it was better to die than to live with these people. The family would have to move out of town, like I hoped we would have done over that wretched summer before Fourth Grade. It was more likely they’d end up in foster care because mom and dad went crazy. Hm. Sucks to be them.
Suicide on school grounds sends a message.
I thought of using a green-for-puke crayon to write my suicide note and I’d use the word “acknowledge” because that was a big spelling word, and I knew what it meant.
“I acknowledge that the other kids hated me and the teachers hated me and the school offices were out of touch.”
That would show that someone intelligent chose to die rather than continue to “live” that existence. Some of the kids would have been shocked. Others would have denied it ever happened, that I even existed.
The teachers would have resented me — I’m sure there would be meetings with administration. And then the school district would have found some face-saving way to deal with it and sweep it under the rug, until the next kid did himself or herself in. (I did imagine I’d start a trend.) By killing myself, I would have completed my life’s mission. Hopefully, the death of a precocious 9 year-old would wake some people up? I could hope anyway. But Christians/Capitalists/Children Using Nasty Tactics culture is pernicious and ubiquitous.
Thoughts like these might have been swirling in my head that first day of fourth grade while I sat on the bus dreading my arrival at the Elemen-itentiary. But some kids boarded the bus at this unexpected stop and this fresh-faced boy stood at my row and asked if he could sit next to me. I said sure, and he asked me my name, and he told me his name was Garron and that he was new. I asked him where he moved here from, and he said New York. And then we started talking about chemistry sets and dinosaurs. Unbeknownst to me, we had started bonding. All the thoughts of how miserable fourth grade could be vanished in that conversation with Garron who became the best friend I ever had.
Here was the kind angelic soul I craved. Someone who saw me as worthy of his attention and respect. We impressed each other. In the cafeteria I could share lunches with him! Just being around Garron gave me cred that eluded me. I hoped this would be a friendship for the ages. We did have a short separation that created a most-happy reunion, and I found myself looking forward to Mondays! We even traded times of spending the night at each other’s houses. I used to envy that my brother did that with the friends he made at school. It was nice to get this single opportunity. Our friendship continued through the summer before junior high school, and when both of us eventually left School District 12.
Here I am now, age 60, discovering Garron died two years ago. Seeing his face from his later years uncorked all of these memories and feelings. I’ve missed him. Wow, for decades. He arrived in my life at a time when I was told I was a waste of time, and he batted that idea into smithereens. I see that my life has value in part because of his gentle, smiling support. And the timing intrigues me because I’ve started to go through the Adult Children of Alcoholics 12 Steps again, because I have quite a lot of unreleased feelings impeding my ability to connect.
Today, I must go backwards to go forward. Joy is alongside.
