Shame
I think I was fairly OK as a young boy. I had my shortcomings, of course—and who can say that vaporizing ants and watching slugs burn alive isn’t quite a good way to pass the time?—but I could have turned out a lot worse. That said, one particular incident in the school dining-hall sticks in my mind. It’s something I think about often. It’s also something I am ashamed about, and always will be.
I was standing in front of a girl who had just had Gastric band surgery, and behind a black girl who was really pretty, and really shy. The girl had an impressive afro hair-doo and so it was impossible for a curious youngster such as myself not to marvel at it. Out of nowhere, words came out of my mouth. And they were not quiet. They came with enough velocity to make the people around me cover their ears and duck.
“That looks like the wispy stuff that comes out of my mum’s vacuum cleaner!” I exclaimed. It was merely an observation. I was simply stating a fact as my eight-year-old mind saw it. And that was when the laughing began. At the same time, I started to cry and so did the girl.
I remember thinking that none of it made any sense. Why was everyone laughing at the girl? Why was the teacher smiling at me in such a way as to say ‘well done’? I feel sick when I think about the look that the teacher gave me. I feel sick because he should have taken me to one side and explained to me that I had been wrong, and he did not.
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