Holding them in my hands, keeping them safe, these tiny persons had no one else - no other hero. If I couldn’t help them, there was no hope.
As the giant’s hand slapped against my strength, forcing my hands to open, sending these helpless souls to a crashing demise.
Scattered. Destroyed.
Dead.
Fall of 1982, 3rd grade.
My life as a child existed in the realms of my mind. I have few memories of my childhood. Wonderful worlds and visions that existed in my mind still resonate as ‘my life’. It’s hard to break through the veil of reality and discover wonder in the real world. When emotional trauma besets us at an early age, there is always a better place inside of us.
That fall day on the playground, only two-hundred feet from my current home, I had the notion as I played alone that acorns looked like little people wearing hats. I could only carry a few, but that day, I could not leave them on the dirt, alone, unloved.
Lineup was always the same. Alphabetical.
The class assignments also: Academic Examinations.
Groups A, B, and C were respectively students whose grades were averaging A through C. The D and F groups also existed. In the fourth grade, I was in the A Group.
Marching into alphabetical order I stood behind the same girl and in front of another for over six years. At the rear of the line, a boy noticed my handfuls of little people. For whatever reason, he began to mock me and pick up his own acorns to hurl in my direction. Turning around I pleaded with my eyes and it only enraged him. He tossed a handful toward me, hitting several people around me and also the teacher, Ms. Peachy.
She often lived up to her name. Kind, attentive, and creative. She was always patient and understanding with me as a dreamer. Even when my mind was elsewhere, she knew I could grasp what I was learning.
This day, her peach turned screech and the movement of her once jolly face turned to rage. She marched to the back of the line like a hawk seeking a tiny mouse from the skies, saw my hands full of little souls, and smashed them. Twice. Until they all fell.
“Next time you hit anyone with something, you’re going to the principal’s office.” [Oddly I was always taught to spell principal by remembering they were my PAL - yet the office was used to instill fear-based compliance - I call bull shit.]
At this age, I had long learned to weep internally and could hold buckets of tears on my bottom lids. Boys don’t cry.
I never recovered from that day. It was the first time I had been bullied by a teacher, but it wouldn’t be the last. And to her credit, she didn’t know. She discovered later who the culprit was from the snitch behind me, and she apologized. The scar never healed. This was not hate, but a mistake.
Ms. G, my 4th-grade teacher, had an amazing first-day announcement. “Class, everyone one of you is responsible for making sure the floor around your desk remains clean. So, I am going to give you all tiny little vacuum cleaners…”
Now, I love to clean. And moreover, I love vacuum cleaners. I currently own seven. Yes… I will write about that later if you want. But the thought of having my own tiny vacuum for class was thrilling. I could only imagine the little bag and hose!
“Now watch and do what I do….” as Ms. G begins to show us how to pinch our fingers together so we could “vacuum” up paper from the floor. “Ugh, this is pinching up the paper, no vacuum here… what a liar.”
It took me a few days to realize we were not getting miniature household appliances.
I’m not sure when, but a few weeks later it was time to clean. We all would get on the floor, pick up our paper, and place it on our desk for the weekly “janitor” to come around with the bin. I can remember the brown-beige carpet. Low pile, and very course, it was rough on the palms and would leave indentions like scars that would carry me to places unknown for a few minutes until they faded. Sometimes I imagined them as scales… like I was an Argonian from Skyrim. (Long before that reality)
My desk was blue plastic with chrome legs. Underneath rested a similar wire basket that held the books and things you didn’t need during class. These desks were lighter and in my opinion, better than the previous dark caves of the under-top storage where goblins, spiders, and sinister snakes lived.
“Time to get ready for class change…” Ms. G reported.
I have no idea what we were doing and most of the time I was in another world. But I heard this. So, I got on the ground, with no paper to pick up, and decided to stack my books in better order according to size.
Doing this helped me balance my backpack and helped it zip better.
My backpack was blue with brown trim. It matched my New Balance shoes and the puffy vest that I wore almost every day. My Trapper Keeper was blue also, with silver flairs and geometric shapes. I can still hear the “rip” of that Velcro square and the crisp snap of it closing.
It went to the bottom. My larger books, then the smaller ones. I was almost ready to pack…
“Mr. Tippins!!! Mr. Tippins!!! What are you doing on the floor!!???”
“No mind… since you like to be on your hands and knees like a dog, you can just be a dog today!”
I stood up. Spoke nothing.
“No, no, no… you get that bag zipped up right now and put it on your back! NOW! Do it!”
Horror filled my little mind. I had no idea what was happening! I complied. Stood there trembling within.
“Now, get on your hands and knees and line up.”
“You will crawl like a dog to the next class since you like being on the ground so much.”
I could not hold back the tears this time.
Being a “T” meant I had to stay on the ground until the entire class lined up. Then keep pace as we all lined against the left side of the hallway while all the other students watched, for the whole student body to see me crawling. Crying. And Ms. G smiled and heard her say, “He liked to be a dog, so I let him act like one today.”
I never liked that carpet after that. And I made sure to never drop anything on the floor. And to be honest, looking back, I’ve never gotten down on the floor for anything since.
This is hate. Ms. Peachy was emotional. Ms. G was hateful.
Love is not a feeling. It has never been a feeling.
Love is the will to pursue another person’s interest and a decisive intention to help them be a better person. We can meet needs without love. We can feel deeply for someone without love. But without love, no matter the feeling or service, we are really only hating.
Ridicule and shame are some of the molecules that comprise hate. Indifference and apathy, dismissiveness, and mocking… all of these things disregard the dignity of others. While we all experience a lot of hate… oftentimes these experiences help us see true love.
Love that seeks to know us deeply. Love that stays connected even at a cost. Love that truly desires to invest, be intimate, be trusting, be valued…
I know a love like this.
I also know hate.
I choose to frame my life and those in my life through a lens of love and to see them as they love me, even when it doesn’t fit me or my needs at the time.
What love do you know?
I have many stories like this. I’m glad that they’ve taught me to love well and to live well.
To love is to live and learn. A will to know, discern. Moves from the soul, without harm or control, love stands ready and firm.
We can’t define love perfectly, but we can represent it. We can always do it… when we find hate inside, we can love instead. This is good.
This is living.
I help people navigate these emotions and experiences. Let me know if you want to talk.