I think back to the day she came to my rescue. Luz, whose name means light . . . Luz, my beacon of hope in the darkness. Tears stream down my face unchecked, and I don’t care if anyone sees me cry.
Dear Caroline from Canada
by Carrie Ryan
Dear Caroline from Canada,
I know we last saw each other on the Western Tour in the summer of 1993 and you’ve probably forgotten me. But I’m not sure I ever really thanked you. I’m not sure I even understood how brave you were until I got older.
Just in case you don’t remember . . . We were at the dude ranch in Wyoming and some girl (I can’t remember her name but I’ll call her Ginger) said she wanted a cowboy. The only cowboy at the ranch our age asked me to dance (he even sang “Wonderful Tonight” in my ear—I still love that song) and that ticked her off, so she told him, and everyone else, that I was gay.
Today I’d just laugh at her. I’m embarrassed that being called gay was even an insult back then. And it’s not really that that insulted me; it’s that we had to share rooms and beds with other girls on the tour and suddenly they all gave me the evil eye when we were paired up. We weren’t allowed to walk around unless we were in groups of three and no one—no one—would let me hang out with them.
I had to beg to tag along behind random groups so I wouldn’t get in trouble.
It was in the mall after the bus broke down when you told me what Ginger said—until then I had no idea why everyone suddenly hated me that much. All I knew was that I was ostracized—utterly and completely cast out.
So alone. Humiliated.
But you paired up with me that day. You told me the truth even though it was difficult and you promised that you’d be my friend and never leave me out again.
I was so selfish I was just glad to have a friend. I didn’t think about what that meant for you and your reputation. Suddenly everyone called you my gay girlfriend and you were cast out just as much as I was.
It didn’t matter, though, because we were friends.
Thank you. Thank you for showing so much courage—more than I think I could have ever expected or understood. Thank you for taking the dive to your own reputation to keep me company.
You may not know it, but you changed my life that summer. You taught me to stand up for people, not to believe gossip and lies, to be inclusive rather than exclusive. You taught me to believe in who I am and to become a more loving person. That’s a lesson I’ve tried to hold on to since.
Thank you.
Love,
Carrie
The Blue-Eyed Girl
by Jocelyn Maeve Kelley
When I was seven years old I met the blue-eyed girl. We stood dripping wet as the cement pool deck sizzled beneath our delicate feet, the skin still soft and smooth, not yet hardened from repeated exposure to the summer elements of sand and surf. We became summer friends but location tore us apart for the school year and we were forced to focus our attention on other kids, classmates with whom we could share our lunches and our secrets on the playground from September to June. But when summer came, the blue-eyed girl and I were friends again. The excitement reached its pinnacle when we found out we would finally be attending the same school, junior high. Sixth grade.
Suddenly our worlds collided and everything that was simple and easy changed. Boys came into the picture and popularity crept into our psyche and the blue-eyed girl did things that set herself apart from everyone else—a fate worse than death when you are thirteen years old. She cried openly when her feelings were hurt, when she was left out at lunch or from birthday parties and sleepovers. She didn’t know that pretending to be someone you’re not made life easier, or maybe she just refused to accept it. She held on to everything that made her fiercely different: her emotions, her anger, her bossiness and determination. She wore her heart all over her sleeve.
The lunchroom was the center of sixth-grade life. We were set free for one hour to joke and gossip, to laugh and flirt, to whisper and promise secrecy. Our lunch tables were small and crowded, so the decision of where you sat was one of hot contention. Every day we counted down the hours until the lunch bell rang, and when it did, we prayed that today would not be the day we found ourselves left out. We were selfish and we coveted the inclusion that a seat provided us with. We were so thankful if a chair was left available, saved even, that we never cared who the unlucky ones were who found themselves out of luck. It was a teenage version of musical chairs. If we made it into the “group” table, then everything was sunny and life was good—we were still in the game.
But then the game turned ugly. A trip to the guidance counselor and a look at the tears that our seat saving had caused the blue-eyed girl in particular made my heart hurt. I don’t know if it was seeing the look of desperation on her face, the sadness that sat deep in her eyes, the crisis swirling around her, but at that moment I made a change. I no longer fought for the coveted seat at the group table. If the blue-eyed girl wasn’t included in the lunchroom, then I didn’t want to be included, either. If she wasn’t invited to the sleepovers, then I didn’t want to go. I would love to say it was smooth sailing after that, but it wasn’t. I lost friends. I was the subject of notes passed and whispered secrets in the hallway. But the friendship I had with the blue-eyed girl was all I needed.
Maybe life can be easier if you throw out everything that makes you different and unique, but then it’s no longer your life. It’s something created, imagined, something owned and dictated by a group. I’ve seen both sides. I’ve been inside and I’ve been out. I chose out. I stepped away from the lunch table. The blue-eyed girl and I found our own seats, apart from the crowd. I walked away from safety and made memories of my own choosing, just me and the blue-eyed girl. Our friendship grew and strengthened over the years. We became an inseparable duo. It took us through the hallways of high school, the campus visits of college, and the bars of our early twenties. When I would run into some of those girls from the “popular” lunch table, they told me that if I hadn’t been friends with the blue-eyed girl, they would have included me. I couldn’t have cared less. I stood up for the one left behind. I willingly jumped into the fire, and yes, my feet got burned, but I kept walking and have never looked back.
Frenemies Are Not Friends
by Michelle Zink
My daughter’s bullies came disguised as friends.
It started at the end of seventh grade, but to understand it all, you have to go back further than that.
Pretty much from birth, my daughter was an attention getter. It might have been the blond hair and green eyes, or it might have been her utter disregard for what other people thought—I’ve learned that confidence is appealing in pretty much everyone.
Who knows?
What I do know is that she didn’t strive for it. She just did things the way she wanted to, without a thought to what anyone would think. She wore clothing in strange combinations (something I attributed to artistic tendencies that were later proven), experimented with weird hairstyles starting in kindergarten, and sat down in the middle of the soccer field during games because “My legs are so tired, Mommy.” Even when her teammates yelled and screamed, angry that they might lose because of her lack of effort, no amount of cajoling could convince her to play when the truth was, she just didn’t want to.
Once, while rehearsing the day before a dance recital, she sat down on the stage as the other girls twirled around her, casting astonished glances her way amid shouts of “You’re ruining everything!” Afterward, I asked her why she would behave in such a way right before a recital.