short piece, true
WRITTEN:
1984, 17 years
AUTHOR'S NOTES:
This is a true story. When I was in Year 12 there was a kid in Year 7 whose name was Alan. A few of us seniors were aware of him only because of catching the school bus home in the afternoons, and he was noticeable only because of the way his peers treated him. We didn't have a prefect system at our school, but I often felt we should have. The way I was at school I could hardly speak up for myself, and I rarely had the nerve to speak out in anyone else's defence (and the one time I did, telling someone called Tim not to harass someone I refer to as Mē, it took quite some time to live down and was the source of much unhappiness for me and for Mē, and naturally Tim took full advantage of this in his daily efforts to wind me up, and I generally wished the earth would open up and swallow me, etc).
I was so appalled by the way Alan was treated, and so ashamed of myself for not doing something positive instead of just being apathetic as usual, that I wrote this piece "for" him, although I don't imagine he's ever seen it. I wanted to submit it to the school magazine but I was persuaded not to as it was a hot topic politically and could result in my being harassed as well, so I didn't (I was still being harassed over something that had happened four years earlier, so I was reluctant to encourage the lunatic fringe).
All I can say now is I hope he's out there somewhere and that one day he sees this. I have changed only a few words to improve expression, and added some punctuation for the same reason; otherwise it is unchanged.
| - preface - |
We should, I think, be above such laughter, though we are not. Sadly, I think of how I should be strong, be right, be just, and sadly, of how I am not.
Boys will be boys, I know, and children will tease and taunt and tire, but (and I come to that word, that conjunction between two thoughts, that euphemism for an excuse, but), I think, I wish, I beg for mercy now and then. No mercy; there is no mercy.
| - one - |
Alan gets on the bus to the tauntings and jeerings of his classmates. I wince, remembering myself, myself at twelve, awkward and shy, desperate for companionship. Alan gets on the bus and someone gets off, feigning asphyxiation. Alan gets on the bus, signing up for twenty minutes of undiluted torture; for twenty minutes, the only attention he will get will come in the form of unrelenting rejection.
Alan gets on the bus, his eyes the colour of sadness, but smiling bright and eager. Attention comes in many forms, he consoles himself. I feel for him and despise myself for it.
| - two - |
Waiting the interminable two minutes for the bus to depart. The air is a marinade of shouts and songs, emotional colour and physical clamour, and Alan searches for a seat. Legs and bags leave the floor, finding new comfort on the seats. Laughter explodes and we look on, look back, at Alan standing, undecided.
Guilty, I take my bag from the empty seat beside me, but Alan is too far past to see. Too far gone for rescue. Laughing now at himself, Alan moves to the front of the bus, tripping over extended legs, bags and bodies. Leaning against the rail of the luggage shelf, Alan gazes back at us. It is Alan's last day, his last time with us here on the school bus. He smiles, humming a melody of his own, feigning indifference.
| - three - |
With the grumble and roar of the bus as we circle the block towards the main road comes another sound: the clown of choice imitating the chosen clown, the braying of a donkey and the grunting of a pig, accompanied by uncontrolled giggling. Thus is heralded the new strategy. Noises and actions, parodies of Alan feature at the back of the bus. Howling and whining, slurred and stammered sentences, autistic stares and spastic jerks punctuate wheezing laughter.
We, I, should be above this cruelty, but even I cannot prevent a tiny smile escaping to my face. I should be above this laughter; at least out of respect to myself. Looking now at Alan I see him grinning amiably at the passengers of the bus. His best defence, his good-naturedness, is the very magnet that attracts the torment; everybody's free afternoon entertainment.
| - end - |
The twenty minutes pass, the required set-down point is arrived at. Alan, leaving the bus, is farewelled with exaggerated relieved sighing, mock tears and dramatic mimes of tragic loss.
Catching his eye as he passes my window, I see understanding and forgiveness. Alan can forgive, as he must do many times. I am left to deal with my anger alone.