Strong Will, Delayed Wisdom

I was a difficult child. Not in the vague way adults sometimes say about energetic kids... I remember it very clearly. I had opinions, a stubborn streak, and very little interest in doing something simply because someone told me to (or not to!)

My earliest clear memory of bucking authority comes from kindergarten. I was doing something I wasn’t supposed to be doing. I don’t remember what it was, exactly, but my teacher put me in time-out in the corner of the room.

The corner featured a large bulletin board with the usual classroom decorations and a scalloped paper border. It was the only interesting thing within reach. I stood there for a while feeling no remorse whatsoever, then began peeling the border away from the board. Slowly at first, piece by piece, checking whether anyone would stop me. I kept tearing the paper into tiny pieces until the floor around me looked like a confetti explosion.

When I was released from time-out, the bulletin board looked unfinished, and I felt productively occupied and not the least bit remorseful.

In later elementary years, my teachers refined their strategy. Time-out moved into the hallway, where I was assigned a study carrel, designed to remove distraction and encourage quiet work. I spent most of that time drawing on the walls of the carrel and accomplishing very little quiet work. I was old enough to know better and young enough not to care.

Around that same time, we lived close enough to school that my younger brother and I walked home from school through an alley that cut between two rows of houses. It was faster than going around the block and usually uneventful. One afternoon, a group of boys had decided to corner my brother, crowding him and seeing how far they could push. I arrived just as they were starting to circle him.

I did not stop to evaluate the situation. I ran straight toward them, said several things that would have required soap if my mother had heard them, and swung at one of them. They scattered immediately. My brother and I continued home as if nothing unusual had happened. He never mentioned my language. Some alliances are understood without discussion.

By high school, my mouth no longer got me into trouble with teachers; I had learned how to operate within the system and actually liked most of them. My tolerance for bullies, however, remained extremely low.

I was a freshman in high school in the early 1980s, which meant gym class, line dancing, and whatever trends filtered down to teenagers in that era. One of the fun little fashion trends was wearing two different colored shoelaces in my tennis shoes – I thought it made me look extremely ‘choice.’

During one class we were practicing a line dance routine. Anyone who did not dress down for gym was required to sit along the wall and observe. That day the school bully, Jody, was stationed there, watching with a smirk.

I had the misfortune of being in the line closest to where she was sitting. She provided commentary throughout, mostly about how ridiculous we looked. Then she focused on me. She stared directly at my shoes and sneered, “Your shoelaces look stupid!” she mocked.

Without missing a beat, I smiled at her and said, “Thank you! I have another pair at home just like them!”

I had never “talked back” to her before, and she responded with a threat about what would happen after class; I treated it like background noise, too busy beaming at my clever comeback to give any merit to what she said.

After class, in the locker room, I was changing back into my regular clothes when she appeared with one of her friends. She jumped up onto the long bench between the rows of lockers and marched down toward me like she was on a mission.

“Hey, you!” she shouted.

Before I could react, she grabbed a handful of my hair and yanked my head upward. I spun around and by instinct, dug my nails into her arm until she let go. It was not strategic, just reflex, but I had the presence of mind to see that it was hurting her.

She let go and backed off. The confrontation ended as quickly as it had started, and she never bothered me again. I felt triumphant for the rest of the school day. I had stood my ground and had not backed down. I had handled it.

Then I got home.

The moment I saw my mother, the entire day caught up with me and I burst into tears. Mom wanted to go down and have a word with the school but I think I successfully talked her out of it. I didn't want word to get back to Jody and make things worse.

I am still strong-willed; I just use it more selectively now. These days I am quieter, more observant, and far less likely to swing first. I’m also less likely to say anything that might invite retaliation!

It turns out restraint requires just as much strong will.

A little grace, a little grit, plenty of laughter,

~Stef