A Memory of Violence and Regret

Sometimes books can pull old memories to the forefront and then you just can’t shake them. I recently read Going Under by S. Walden which described a girl laden with guilt, having a deep desire for atonement.  It caused a certain memory to surface, one that is not going away with any ease.

It’s an old memory of an incident that transpired on a school bus.  I was only a child.  I was in first grade and my sister was in kindergarten.  We were sitting next to each other as usual, both of us quiet, always quiet.  Our father had recently been murdered and we were still putting the pieces back together in our minds.  We huddled in shells of our old selves, self-sustained cocoons of solitude, still unsure of the world.

Kids were yelling, laughing all around us.  My sister and I stared at our feet, sitting in the back row. Suddenly, the boy in front us reached back and pulled the hat off my little sister’s head and threw it, for no apparent reason.  At first she tried to lunge for it, but the boy was too quick. When she started to cry, other boys got in on the game and threw the hat back and forth.  She looked up at me, begging me to help her.  It seems like no big deal, but to us it was.  We were still scared, terrified.  We were frightened of every intent; we saw evil where no one else did.  I looked down at her and saw the tears in her eyes, the pleading.

I wasn’t going to let her down.  I was going to break out of my shell.  I was going to do something, if only for her.  I would show her how strong I was.

It was a simple thing, really.  I stood up, swung my book bag, which was loaded with library books, behind my back, threw it over my shoulder in a sweeping motion and landed those books on top of the kid’s head.  As hard as I could.

He never saw it coming because he was sitting down again, face front.  After the impact, I waited. I waited for him to jump up and hit me back, or do something.  But he didn’t.  He looked up at me with these eyes, these eyes.

I will never forget that look in his eyes.  Wide with confusion, and pain.

“Why?” was all he said.  All he could say.  He grabbed his head and his eyes faded from the look of surprise into wretched humiliation and pain.  He began to cry.  The bus was suddenly silent.  Everyone was staring at me.  My sister didn’t even say a word as her hat was tossed back.

I was only in first grade but the boy – I don’t remember what grade he was in.  He could have been in first grade as well; he wasn’t that big.  I don’t remember who he was or even his name, but I will never forget his eyes and the sudden silence on the bus.

My reaction was all wrong.  It just told everyone to stay away from us; we weren’t normal.

I’ve never been able to rid myself of this awful memory because I never apologized.  At least, I think that’s what it is.  I don’t remember who the boy was in order to make amends.  Another reason it stays with me is because now that I’m older and have children, I look back and see the eyes of a child whom I hurt.  I was a child then but seeing the memory as an adult is painful. Seeing a child hurt, and knowing that I was the cause, disturbs me.

Whoever you are, and for what it’s worth 33 or some odd years later, I’m so sorry.