Calamity
-There’s the respect that makes calamity of so long life. – Hamlet
“Eww,” she said, her mouth forming an ‘O’ of disgust as she looked through squinted eyes. You see, my friend—whom I thought I could trust—just told the girl I had a crush on my secret. My friend, Rachel, sat between my beloved Renee and myself in the first grade classroom. All year Rachel bugged and begged me to tell her who I had a crush on.
Now as I am typing this I am almost ashamed, the secret seems elementary. Those long lost feelings of apprehension had dissolved somewhere in my early twenties; yet then, my five year old self managed to keep my secret love locked up in my heart, away from the outside world. That was before I befriended Rachel, before I had turned six and had begun to focus more on girls and less on “The Pirates of Dark Water.” Rachel managed to pry free my secret, the first of my many mental defeats. At least, I think Rachel was the first one I told. It is hard to recall now, nearly twenty years later. If not, then she was definitely the first friend of Renee that I told.
I still don’t know why I told her, the memory has gathered fanciful accretions and lost factual details with age. I’m pretty sure I knew that she was the biggest gossip in our grade, if not in our entire school. Was I tricked by her? Lulled by promises of silence and introverted understanding? Maybe I was tired of telling her to mind her own business—or would it be beeswax, considering the lexicon of my six-year-old self—and finally broke down. What I do remember, is that after telling Rachel, she immediately leaned over and told Renee my closeted feelings. I remember the exact look on Renee’s face, and the rueful, bemoaned, “eww” that came out of her mouth, which seemed to hover over my chest and finally, sink into my stomach. I was devastated.
Memories are tricky writes. As I write this now the details are fuzzy, every detail except Renee’s drawn out, “eww,” and her squinting eyes. I also remember the feeling of shame. I truly was devastated, which is the only word to describe the situation. I had been sad before, I had been happy; but those emotions are with us from the start, but for someone to be devastated there is a certain amount of intelligence required. Devastation is seismic, shakes you to the core and shifts your foundation. This feeling of calamity tattooed Renee’s words into my mind, along with that feeling of hopeless rejection.
I played it off as if it were no big deal. Or, maybe, I sunk my head down low, almost touching the hard wood desk stained with pen marks. These memories surrounding the event are cumbersome, only Renee’s disgust can be found in its entirety within my mind. I know what you’re thinking, ‘You were only six, there is no way you were devastated.’ I would have to tell you that you are wrong. I was a total romantic in grade school, highly neurotic and overly emotional. In kindergarten, all the kids would have to do to get me to cry was call me “teddy bear.” I truly believed that either Renee would be my future wife, or I would admiringly loathe her and remember her as the one that got away.
Devastation seems to imprint itself upon my mind, which makes it simpler to write about. Maybe it is because the event challenges your sense of security or disrupts your innocence. I can recall happier times: when my father bought me a remote control monster truck; along with sadder times: when my neighbor’s dog had died and I found it on their porch. But, these memories seem much less profound, and not as refined as my memory of Renee and her abhorrence.
My devastation of seeing Renee’s loathsome response is not the only memory that sealed itself within my mind in complete clarity. I remember clearly, just months after Renee’s rejection of me that my mother’s father passed away. I didn’t understand it at the time, I barely remember my mother’s father. I have a vague recollection of his countenance, and the way he would pretend to drive my matchbox cars around on the floor with me. What I do remember is the day my mother came home, her face pale and sunken. As soon as she walked in through the front door, she started to cry uncontrollably. My father told me that my grandfather had passed away, but this did not seem to phase me too much. I couldn’t understand the gravity of the situation. I just remember being devastated by my mother’s crying, though my father kept us children in the family room while she grieved in the living room. I couldn’t understand why he wouldn’t let me console her. I couldn’t get the image—and I still can’t—of my mother’s incredible sorrow out of my mind.
These two memories are most clear to me at this age. The rest have altered variously throughout my life. Either the years are wrong or the details are incomplete. I am afraid to write of memories before my freshman year of high school because of this. Even high school memories have managed to alter, crowds fill with different people, and names begin to disappear. Only those memories of devastation can be safely recalled. My father’s first disappointment of a failing grade. A death of a friend in second grade. A teacher’s first disappointment in my behavior. My first encounter with a bully. Seeing my mother completely vulnerable for the first time. And, of course, the loss of my first love.
