In the first grade I told my friend Yolanda that I thought a boy named Akim was a butthead. I don't remember the origins of my distaste for Akim but I can imagine that in the world of a six year old I really had no cause for such slander. Akim was tall kid with a big head and a giant smile. Now see, I just made him sound endearing. Don't fall for it. He was a butthead!
Yolanda told on me during story time and I was given a red piece of construction paper to slip into a pocket with my name on it. For the record, you didn't want construction paper in your pocket. Empty pockets were key. A notion I still practice today.
The consequences of each different color construction paper still flash in my mind. Green was a mild misdemeanor. Forgetting a pencil or picking your nose. Yellow was for disrupting the class. Red was the scariest of the colors because it meant that you were so awful that you were only one color away from the end- the black paper. In theory the black paper should have been the scariest but recipients of the black paper never actually saw it in their pockets because they would be immediately escorted to the principle's office within moments of Mrs. Welch's decision to bestow on you "the black one" as we called it.
Being a butthead, Akim's pocket was very colorful most days and he was not phased by the presence of paper in his pocket. My pocket was pure. Never before had any paper found itself in my pristine, manilla pocket. The red strip caught my eye all day. I would look at that foreigner in my pocket and then look down at Akim. Poor Akim with his fidgety hands and beady eyes was no reason to have my pocket marred with red paper. Maybe Akim didn't know how not to be a butthead. Then I pitied Akim, scolded myself, and focused my attention on Yolanda. "What a jerk!" I thought while we practiced our cursive. Telling on me. Betraying my trust. Causing me paper!
After this incident I remained a good kid all the way through school, never receiving any equivalent of paper in my pocket. I was once forced to partake in a class-wide detention in the fifth grade because of an unknown vigilante who made our teacher sit on an ink pad. It was like a censored bar across the back of her wide, khaki skirt.
I've never forgotten the shame of my class knowing I'd called someone a name. I was trained to be polite and I'd ruined it. Anyways, my point. I still feel bad about calling Akim a butthead. I realized that I'm so often accused of being too nice to people because I don't ever want someone to mentally put paper in their Laura pocket. They say you can't please everyone but I work overtime to do just that. Except for that one girl, Alice, but that's mutual so...
Why should I care if someone puts paper in my pocket? Is it because I knew I didn't deserve the paper just like Akim didn't deserve my slanderous words? This worthless rant took place because I was thinking about Akim again and thought "you never know the whole story. Don't call people buttheads."
I think that's a life lesson right there.
More importantly, today is Ari's birthday. She'll be here in just four days! Unfortunately it's to get her tonsils removed and you know I'm very squeamish. We'll have to work out a visitation schedule so that I'm not exposed to anything unpleasant. Notice I've made this about me.
Happy Birthday, my love!!!
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