Sometimes the lessons we learn as kids stay with us for life. This is one of those stories: a memory from fourth grade that taught me the power of standing up for what’s right.
In 1974, I was ten years old, in fourth grade at Malcolm X Elementary School in Berkeley, California. Two of my closest friends were Jillian Bucky, with her big brown curls, and Carla Shugar, who had straight blond hair. Jillian and I rode the same school bus, and we’d taught ourselves the alphabet in sign language so we could talk in secret on the bus.
The playground at Malcolm X was known for its trashcans, always overflowing with lunch leftovers and for the mini-twisters (we called them “dust devils”) that whipped the trash into spinning whirlwinds. One afternoon, without Jillian or Carla beside me, I was on the playground when I heard a commotion. A group of kids had surrounded another kid who had a metal trashcan over his head. They banged on the can, laughed, and taunted him. He wobbled like he might fall.
My heart dropped. Without thinking, I ran over and yelled at them to stop. “This is a terrible thing to do!” I shouted. Some of the kids backed away, but the ringleaders stayed, still laughing. I put myself between them and the kid with the can on his head. They hit me a few times (just enough to sting) before an adult finally arrived. Mark was crying and covered in trash and goo (I think his name was Mark).
An adult led Mark and me toward the special ed area. I walked back to my classroom, heart still racing. I felt proud that I’d stood up for someone, and a bit surprised that I’d actually done it.
A week later, Ms. Kesner’s class was just getting a pop math quiz when another teacher came in and called my name. I thought I was being pulled for a gifted-and-talented thing, but then the teacher turned to the class and said, “She’s going to a party for Mark!” She and Ms. Kesner made a big deal of it, celebrating that I was skipping the math test for this. I felt both proud and embarrassed. I don’t remember much of the party itself, just that the kids were nice and we had cake.
This was a pivotal moment in my life. At the age of ten, I discovered that unkindness and bullying could exist even on children’s playgrounds. At home and at school, I’d been taught that to be a good American meant caring for the weak, protecting and defending people being hurt, and standing up for what was right. That day, I learned it was better to stand on the right side of that fence, and that sometimes, even one voice can make a difference.
Looking back, I realize that day shaped who I am and how I try to show up in the world. I hope it inspires others to stand on the right side of the fence too.
Fred created this image using the above:
