Tuesday, February 24, 2015

you make good friends

The first time I felt shame happened in first grade. I attended a private school, overseen by my Pentecostal church. Because of the structure, I could study whatever I wanted to at my own speed. Social Studies, Science, Math, English - any order, different every day.

Except then we had to study one topic at a designated time each day, for a specific period of time.

And I got bored. Really bored. On a daily basis. 

After I finished my work, I found other things to fill the time. I'd stare at the wall, imagining unicorns, fauns, or ponder the possibility of discovering Narnia. My pencil became a magic talisman, transporting me into one of those fantastic wrinkles in time.  

The best time-filler, though, was talking with my best friend, Tabby, who sat next to me.

Eventually, my teacher had enough; I was told I talked too much, I didn't focus, I distracted Tabby from her work. She couldn't tell me to stop talking with her because I didn't listen. Talking disturbed the class, making it difficult for others to study and learn. All because I was bored.

My desk was pulled away from the group's, and then turned to face the wall. I wouldn't have any other distractions. Nor would I be one.

Tabby had to be moved to the opposite corner next to boys she didn't like, and it was my fault. 

I was told I lacked self-discipline; that I was selfish and lazy. It was all my fault. Worst of all, I was a bad friend. I could pressure, I could distract; but no one would really want to be my friend.

That's been rumbling around my mental wardrobe for almost 40 years. And I didn't realize it took up quite so much space until this weekend, when someone popped the proverbial lock with a pocketknife of a compliment.

You make good friends.

When I shared this sharp new idea with another friend of mine, he cried.  He said there were multiple ways to take that statement, thanks to the quirkiness of the American English language. And as he talked, I realized I hadn't thought of any of them.

I hadn't thought about the friends I've collected as being good for me. They were misfits, like me, and we misfit together. Birds of a mismatched feather. 

One of the first things I learned in first grade was I didn't offer good friendship, so really the thought didn't occur I might be a good friend, too.

Or that being friends with me could actually be good for someone else.

But then a friend took me to school.

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