Childhood Memoir

There they all stand, jittering, encroached in some sort of circle. Huddling, not for warmth, just to look professional to the squads of onlookers gathered with pitchforks. He tries to separate himself from the group. Is betrayal a better option than certain death? He answers his subconscious quickly enough and breaks into a sprint.

Who are the pitchforkers*? Who makes up the group? Does it matter? These questions are set on a rather low priority as he evades both death and persecution by his peers.

He eventually reaches refuge. Quickly he darts behind the vibracrete memory of a wall. He knows this place well; oftentimes he comes here to think. He has much to think about, but not right then. They saw him come here. Will they follow? Is he significant enough?

He crouches in a trembling stupor for about ten minutes. He has no way of knowing the real time of course. But ten minutes sounds about right.

The noise dies down and he ventures out from his safe spot.  With a heavy heart he realizes that Phys Ed is over. They have left without him. He trudges back to the school building, his heart weighed down with rejection and loneliness.

He contemplates his situation: He is late for class, and his persecutors will be waiting for him when he gets there. They will relish the tongue-lashing he is sure to receive when he gets to class.

He remembers the last time he got in trouble. The boys quoted the teacher’s words at every opportunity. They only stopped when they realized that none among them could any longer quote, at any recognizable level, the harsh words he had received. He is not one to get in trouble.

Although he hardly ever agreed with his teachers on any ideological level, he was dead scared that they would speak to his parents. It is his paralyzing fear of being outed to his parents that has kept him in line all these years. He prefers not to speak to his parents; they seldom approve. His parents are predictable as their values are flagged about proudly, but they are not his. He does not want anyone to know that he does not fit in perfectly. He actually believes he is succeeding.

He is frightened most by judgement; especially by that of his parents, the ones who have known him since he was them. What would they do if they thought he was anything less than perfect, anything less than a normal Christian child? A child who embraces negativity in private, or who is not excited at any academic opportunity could not be understood by his father.

When he gets to class he finds the teacher is out of the room. He finds his seat amidst jeers and prying questions. They wanted to know where he had gone. Some asked if he had gone to “piss”, but that seems to be the worst of it.

Soon enough the bell rings and the boys stampede down the corridors. The halls are full of noise; the bustling of children and the tongue-lashings of authorities. He wrestles himself to the exit as fast as he can. He knows that the lift club is waiting for him. He knows that they will not accept excuses. Certainly not: “school ended but a minute ago, it’s 2:33”.