I told her that I know how that feels.
When I was in middle school, I was the kind of girl who was “good” popular—president of the Associated Student Body, editor of the paper, friend to all . . . or so they thought. But I gleefully filled out the pages of a slam book with dozens of names in it, and not all my comments were nice. Some were far from nice. Some were very, very mean. With some years between then and now, I’m stunned that I could have said such things. But at the time, we scribbled in that book in classes, passing it around when the teachers weren’t looking. We worked on it during lunch. Gross, zitty, BO. Some of my disses were classics of snark, or so I imagined: B-O-B = L-S-R. As if every mean thing I wrote were some soaring haiku of wit. SUL SUX.
At the end of the week that the slam book made its rounds, I got called to the principal’s office. I sat across from his gray metal desk in a sweat while he asked me if, in my position as the school president and the newspaper editor, I could put a stop to cruel, mean-spirited things like this. Maybe I could write an editorial. Or I could give a speech at the next pep rally. He was genuinely distressed and disappointed that “some people” could turn against their fellow students like wild animals and display such a lack of respect and regard for common decency. As he paged through the spiral-bound notebook, shaking his head, he talked about how some of these insults and digs might stick with the victims for the rest of their lives.
Since we had each created a symbol to represent our names, he didn’t know I had taken part. Was I ashamed that I wrote in the slam book? Yes, but that shame came much later. When I sat there in his office, I didn’t feel so much remorse as acute terror that I would be busted. I was more worried about getting in trouble than I was about inflicting lasting damage on anyone’s psyche.
The Dalai Lama said, “Be kind whenever possible. It is always possible.” And Plato said, “Be kind, for everyone you meet is fighting a hard battle.” But I know that when you’re scoring points for epic put-downs and clever repartee, it’s hard to remember to be kind. When you’re in the passenger seat and the driver, aka your best friend, rolls up the windows because that girl starts walking toward the car—that mousy chick with the bad skin, who’s maybe hoping just to say “Hi” to you because you’ve got everything and you’re so pretty, it’s so easy to forget. It’s much easier to remember that you have a reputation to preserve, and you sure don’t want to get stuck with this loser—be nice for two seconds, and she’ll be inviting you to the movies, just watch. Easiest of all to make a point of locking the windows and doors and shouting “Let’s get out of here!” instead of giving zit-chick a wave—a place in the sun, two seconds of your time.
My letter writer sounded just as sad and confused as anyone who’s ever been picked on. And just as powerless. The center of attention, the reigning queen of school, and she had a slam-book-style secret. She didn’t want the power to hurt.
The Dalai Lama also said, “If you want to be happy, practice compassion. If you want others to be happy, practice compassion.” I told that queen bee to start forgiving herself, first and foremost. Over time, the bully inside her will lose its favorite target. And then she’ll get her real power back.
Maybe someone could help her with that.
Can We Make This Letter Disappear?
by Sara Bennett Wealer
Hi, Sara—
It’s Sara. Not Sara from English class or Sarah from choir. It’s actually you—Sara—writing from the future. That sentence felt really weird to write, so I can imagine what you’re thinking: Is this a joke? Did I somehow get cast in a cheesy sci-fi movie? This isn’t some new reality TV show, Sara; this really is you, twenty years from now.
I know. I wouldn’t believe it either, so here’s proof: (1) You’re not exactly sure what happened with that guy you met last summer at the lake, but it kind of scared you and you haven’t told anyone about it. And (2) You’re secretly terrified those spots on the back of your leg are cancer. (Don’t worry, they aren’t.)
I hope I haven’t freaked you out. Actually, if anybody should be freaking out, it’s me. When I signed on to write this letter, I got a warning that any information I shared with the past could affect the present in unforeseen and dramatic ways. I think we’re okay, though, because I’ve been careful not to reveal anything that could change how things turn out. You might like to know that your life—at least as far as I’ve lived it—turns out pretty great, and there isn’t all that much that I would change.
Except for one thing.
That’s the reason I’m writing. But I’m not sure it will make sense if I just blurt it out, so I’m going to ease in with a few lessons I’ve learned over the years—stuff I wish someone would have told me when I was sixteen.
That guy? So not worth fighting over. I know you’ve had problems with girls. I know not all of it has to do with guys, but let’s be honest: guys are a major reason girls are nasty to each other. “Is that girl trying to steal my guy?” “Does the guy I like like that girl better?” “Who does that girl think she is?” Sara, believe me when I tell you that no guy is worth getting involved in a big, hairy drama. There are literally millions of boys out there, and the world would be a much nicer place if more girls said, “Next!” the minute they got a hint that a guy was interested in someone else. Because that says something about him, not the other girl. Instead of tormenting her, concentrate on finding a better guy. They’re out there (and guess what . . . you’re going to marry one).
That girl you make fun of? She’s the cool one at cocktail parties. You know how you dream about getting out of Kansas and being a sophisticated adult? Well, when you start going to real parties—the kind where they don’t drink beer out of plastic cups—you’ll be surprised to see who everybody wants to talk with. It’s that girl you called a freak—the one who dresses weird and listens to music you don’t like. She and her friends are into stuff like art and drama, which you’re into, too, but you downplay because the people you’re friends with think it’s stupid and you don’t want to be called a freak as well. Here’s the thing, though: what makes those girls weird now will make them fascinating in a few years. They’ll have the great stories, the awesome style, and you’ll be scrambling to be more like them. So quit making fun, stop worrying what other people think, and start being more fascinating yourself.
Those girls who make fun of you? They might end up unhappy—or they might not. This is what you tell yourself when the in-crowd crap gets to you: they’d better enjoy it now because they’re going to wind up unfulfilled nobodies who never left high school. In some cases that’s true. From what I’ve been able to tell, some of your former classmates do appear to be stuck in senior year. Others, though, will grow up to be super fabulous. The truth is that mean kids can turn into successful (sometimes still mean) adults. They’ll be your neighbors, your coworkers—maybe even your bosses. So learn to get along with them now. Practice being diplomatic but not underhanded, honest but not catty, friendly yet smart and guarded. You don’t have to be fake—if someone’s not a good friend, then nothing you can do will change that. But hiding isn’t an option, and neither is being mean back.