Dear...
Your Unsent Letters...Sent
Tuesday, April 10, 2007
Victor
It’s been almost 30 years, and I can still picture you in my head: thick black Clark Kent plastic glasses; stringy, greasy hair that always seemed to be in need of a cut; acne that appeared as though it exploded across your face in a Jackson Pollack splash of angry red. Your jeans were always just a tad too short and a bit too tight, and your shirts were straight out of Mechanics Quarterly, the only thing missing was your name embroidered on a tacky little oval tag glued just above the left pocket.
In four years of high school, I only spoke to you once. It was during our sophomore year, when you came into the gym looking for a particular student. You’d been sent there by the secretary of the attendance office, where you spent 5th period every day as a student helper; no one else in the gym would acknowledge you, so I walked over to see what you wanted.
The gym filled with squeals of She’s talking to him! and Gross!!!!
I felt bad for both of us, but I admit, I mostly felt bad for myself. They were making fun of me for talking to the school dweeb. To that kid. Hell, just going near that kid could give one a horrible case of infectious cootie-itis, and I didn’t want to be gross by association.
The thing is, my torment ended two minutes later. You had to endure years of it, until high school ended, and quite possibly beyond that.
We never had any classes together, but I noticed you. I doubt you knew who I was or even my name, but I knew who you were, mostly because of torment that followed you the way air follows everyone else. You couldn’t even sit in the cafeteria without kids at nearby tables getting up and moving, the room echoing with their hurtful comments as they loudly shoved their chairs aside.
People commented on your appearance--take a damned bath already--even when they themselves were less than perfectly presentable. Things were sneered in ways that made it clear that you were beneath everyone else, so saying these things was perfectly all right, because obviously you deserved to hear it.
I don’t know how you put up with it, your peers cringing at the sight of you, or with the rude comments, childish snaps of “Hey pizza-face” and “Yo, moon-crater.” I remember people throwing things at you. Food. Wadded up paper. Pencils. The pseudo-gagging as you walked by. One girl crying when you dared to look at her for more than 2 seconds.
Still, you came to school every day. You never cried, at least not where anyone could see.
I don’t know how you survived it.
I don’t know if you survived it.
The thing is, even though I didn’t know you, never had a class with you, and never really had a reason to just strike up a conversation, I have always felt great shame in the way you were treated. I felt it even back then, but I was too much of a coward to stand up for you. Every single one of us should be ashamed, every single person who was a student at our school during the years you were a student.
There was never a reason for you to be treated so badly. No excuse for acting like you were dog crap stuck to the bottom of the collective student body shoes. As far as I know, other than looking a little bit different, you never did or said anything that would explain, or warranted the treatment you received.
Yeah, kids—even older kids—can be cruel. But damn, you suffered.
I am sorry.
I am sorry for all the hurtful names.
I am sorry for the depths of cruelty in the way you were treated.
I am sorry, so very sorry, that I never had the guts to stand up for you. I’m sorry no one else did, either.
I could say I’m sorry a million times over, meaning it more and more each time, and it would not make up for your high school years.
I hope post-high school was kinder to you, though I don’t see how it could be much worse. I hope adult life has treated you well and tasted as sweet as adolescence was bitter. I hope you’ve accomplished goal and found truth in your dreams. And I hope you’re richer than anyone else in the freaking class.
Mostly, I hope you’re alive.
Seriously. I literally pray that you’re alive, and that the crap heaped on you was not too much to bare.
I will never forget you, and I’ll never forgive myself for being such a gutless wonder.
Sincerely,
Regretful in the Class of ‘79
In four years of high school, I only spoke to you once. It was during our sophomore year, when you came into the gym looking for a particular student. You’d been sent there by the secretary of the attendance office, where you spent 5th period every day as a student helper; no one else in the gym would acknowledge you, so I walked over to see what you wanted.
The gym filled with squeals of She’s talking to him! and Gross!!!!
I felt bad for both of us, but I admit, I mostly felt bad for myself. They were making fun of me for talking to the school dweeb. To that kid. Hell, just going near that kid could give one a horrible case of infectious cootie-itis, and I didn’t want to be gross by association.
The thing is, my torment ended two minutes later. You had to endure years of it, until high school ended, and quite possibly beyond that.
We never had any classes together, but I noticed you. I doubt you knew who I was or even my name, but I knew who you were, mostly because of torment that followed you the way air follows everyone else. You couldn’t even sit in the cafeteria without kids at nearby tables getting up and moving, the room echoing with their hurtful comments as they loudly shoved their chairs aside.
People commented on your appearance--take a damned bath already--even when they themselves were less than perfectly presentable. Things were sneered in ways that made it clear that you were beneath everyone else, so saying these things was perfectly all right, because obviously you deserved to hear it.
I don’t know how you put up with it, your peers cringing at the sight of you, or with the rude comments, childish snaps of “Hey pizza-face” and “Yo, moon-crater.” I remember people throwing things at you. Food. Wadded up paper. Pencils. The pseudo-gagging as you walked by. One girl crying when you dared to look at her for more than 2 seconds.
Still, you came to school every day. You never cried, at least not where anyone could see.
I don’t know how you survived it.
I don’t know if you survived it.
The thing is, even though I didn’t know you, never had a class with you, and never really had a reason to just strike up a conversation, I have always felt great shame in the way you were treated. I felt it even back then, but I was too much of a coward to stand up for you. Every single one of us should be ashamed, every single person who was a student at our school during the years you were a student.
There was never a reason for you to be treated so badly. No excuse for acting like you were dog crap stuck to the bottom of the collective student body shoes. As far as I know, other than looking a little bit different, you never did or said anything that would explain, or warranted the treatment you received.
Yeah, kids—even older kids—can be cruel. But damn, you suffered.
I am sorry.
I am sorry for all the hurtful names.
I am sorry for the depths of cruelty in the way you were treated.
I am sorry, so very sorry, that I never had the guts to stand up for you. I’m sorry no one else did, either.
I could say I’m sorry a million times over, meaning it more and more each time, and it would not make up for your high school years.
I hope post-high school was kinder to you, though I don’t see how it could be much worse. I hope adult life has treated you well and tasted as sweet as adolescence was bitter. I hope you’ve accomplished goal and found truth in your dreams. And I hope you’re richer than anyone else in the freaking class.
Mostly, I hope you’re alive.
Seriously. I literally pray that you’re alive, and that the crap heaped on you was not too much to bare.
I will never forget you, and I’ll never forgive myself for being such a gutless wonder.
Sincerely,
Regretful in the Class of ‘79
Unsent Letters, 12:03 AM
