The rest of elementary school is secondary in my mind to my friendships I made during the same time. Some bits and pieces remain, but what really made an impact on me was the fact I had friends! Not just Michael, but a few boys from my street. There was Julian, the one who lived in the two-story house on the other side of the street, and his next-door neighbor, Matthew. Then, on my side of the street, there was Stefan, the boy who lived with his grandma, the lady with all the flowers in her yard.
The five of us spent a lot of our time together when we weren’t in school. We’d usually just play around in the street, maybe shoot baskets or ride scooters around the block. Occasionally, we’d head back to my house and play video games, or we’d go to Matthew’s house and jump on his trampoline. It was nice. Easy. The rapport between the five of us - Michael and Julian as the rough and tumble kids, Stefan and myself being a little more withdrawn and thoughtful, and Matthew as a wildcare - was the perfect recipe for a band of friends.
We lasted together for one school year and one summer. After the end of fifth grade, Stefan broke the bad news to me when we had gone inside to do something more quiet together. His mom was having him move back to the far side of town to start junior high. He wouldn’t be staying with us anymore, and it would just be me and the other three. I was sad, naturally, and I wanted to try and stay in touch, but I’d never had to do that before. Outside of a “penpal” my mom’s mom had set up for me when I was six, I’d never had a long-distance friend.
And, unsurprisingly, we almost immediately fell out of touch. I remember the last day we spent together; I don’t think any of the other guys were there, and we just kicked back and played games at my house. Sure, we argued a little over whose skills were more honed in Super Monkey Ball, but it was all in good fun. He stayed until the sun set, and even then a little later, trying to eke out as much time as possible together. Then, we heard the knock at the front door. It was time.
We walked to the kitchen, and I gave him a hug. He hugged me tight, and then we parted and he left with his mom. I remember my own mom coming over to reassure me we’d stay in touch. She even gave me his email address. Why that was something she did in 2006, I don’t know, but hey, it was better than nothing. The kind gesture ultimately was futile; we never really spoke in any meaningful away again. Stefan leaving our neighborhood sucked for a lot of reasons, but the one that would only become clear with hindsight - the imbalance in the group - was the most damning.
Without another mild-mannered influence, Julian and Michael successfully turned Matthew into another pot-stirrer. At first, I never really noticed. But after Stefan’s departure, the tone of our get togethers began to change. Less frequently did we actively talk about doing things or wanting to do them, and more frequently, it became the other three deciding what to do, and me figuring out how to participate. If I spoke up or voiced a different opinion, I was ridiculed. Pretty soon, the ridicule became a part of the group activity, since I usually had a differing opinion. Even then, I was determined to make this chance of friendship work. It was the first time I’d had friends for a prolonged amount of time, so I felt real attachment for the first time. There was also the fact that, when I wasn’t the butt of the joke, I did really enjoy my time with these guys.
At school, I was sort of a contradiction; everyone in my grade knew me, and I knew pretty much everyone, but no one actually knew anything about me. Conversely, all I really knew about anyone else was the gossip that was passed around. There’s a subtle irony in that, I think. While everyone just regarded me as “that nice quiet kid who’s really smart,” all I knew about anyone was the tales of their salacious escapades that took place in a world inconceivably far away from me. In reality, both perspectives were skewed, and I’ve never made up for that. In the moment, I never had a need to, since I thought I had my own group.
And I did, admittedly. Like I’ve said, the first parts of the story had a lot of bright points. But shrinking from five to four was the beginning of the end. I’d been conditioned to tolerate the usual schoolyard bullshit: name calling, roasts, being “othered” in every game we played. That wasn’t the abuse in itself. But then it graduated to pushing. Shoving. Hitting. If we played basketball, I wouldn’t really defend shots, I’d just get bashed in the head with the ball a couple times before getting upset and walking away.
Every time I did that, though, they apologized and suckered me back into the game. And they’d change a little, just long enough for me to ignore the fact that they’d started gut checking me or throwing the ball at me harder than they would each other. I’ll give them this, it was effective in getting an awkward kid, desperate for attention and love, to stick around and play punching bag.
Speaking of attention, at this point, my family situation was far less volatile, which somehow made it easier for my relationships with them to degrade. My sisters had gone off to college and were only back around the holidays. I didn’t see my extended family very often, only on occasion, now. And the nuclear family? Well, let’s say the control rods had been removed.
My mom went back to work around the same time I started sixth grade. Coincidentally, just around the time that my friendships with Michael and the rest started to become toxic. At the worst time possible, I’d lost my closest ally, my greatest supporter. Not entirely, of course, but in a way that changed our relationship drastically. Today, my mom will wax nostalgic for the days that I loved her “so much, it was crazy,” and it hurts me to hear. Not just because of the implication of guilt - intentional or otherwise - but because it was just completely out of my control. Especially her returning to work full time, that hurt. From having a mom who helped with every project, wanted to attend every PTA meeting, be first in line at every conference, to having one who frequently had 15, 30, 45 minute delays in picking me up, or not being available to talk, or taking out her stresses on me, it hurt me a lot.
There’s more to that, but it’ll come in time. Rest assured, Mom, I forgive you. I forgave you a long time ago, and I love you deeply. Even when I was just the peak of an awful, untenable, miserable child, you never stopped loving me, despite how difficult I made that. Nothing could repay that kindness, and I’m so sorry it took me so long to understand all of that. But the timing was aligned so perfectly as to cause destruction, and neither of us could’ve done anything to avoid it.
On the other hand, my father and I had never been especially close, but during this period of time, we definitely were, since he was the self-appointed coach for all my sports teams. Around this time (sixth grade, keep up!), I was really focused on baseball, pivoting from shortstop/second base to pitcher. I took to it well, and when my dad saw that, he really wanted to hone my arm. And, maybe if I’d been able to form friendships with my teammates, it would’ve happened that way. But my heart wasn’t on the mound, it was with Michael and the late night video game binges. The rounds of “crack the egg” on Matthew’s trampoline. The dim evenings of scooter riding, punctuated by the crack of the metal deck against my ankle or shins. Maybe the pain kept drawing me back; I can’t be sure of that, but I do know that I was able to walk off a line drive to the arm easily.
Within three years, I’d quit baseball altogether. My dad and I rarely spoke without arguing. Later on, I’d find out he was drinking heavily, every day at work and then more at home. No one would’ve ever expected it, but it explained a lot. That also came out in his even more frequent fights with my mom. Those had been going on since I was a young kid, but now that I was turning into the first real “problem child,” those stresses were only exacerbated.
And then, there’s my brother.