Melody’s dresses were always too short. Her socks were loose and fell down her ankles into scuffed shoes. She was a tiny, sad looking girl who lived in a trailer in Hidden Valley – one of the kids who rode the bus and who didn’t live in our neighborhood. I went to a birthday party of hers once. Her mother was so anxious for other kids to show up that she offered to pick us up and bring us back, even though we lived quite a distance away.
Melody wasn’t an easy girl to befriend. She was quiet and slow to respond. When she did speak, her voice sounded like a question left dangling in mid-air. She frustrated and intrigued me in ways I didn’t fully understand. At 9 years old, I wanted to shake Melody into self-confidence. I wanted to give her a new dress and comb her messy hair. I wanted to see her laugh.
I saw too much of my hidden self in her, and it scared me. The interior self I so carefully kept secret felt exposed by Melody’s obvious poverty. Her fragile appearance felt like something that urgently needed to be corrected – I wanted to toughen her up and make her talk back. I wanted to show her how to curl her tiny hands into fists and flip the bird until she was no longer looked like a victim or an outsider.
Melody didn’t go along with my plan.
“You’re pretty,” I told her.
She stared at her dirty shoes.
They won’t pick on you if you fight back.”
She glanced at me with a pained half-smile.
“Just tell them to fuck off.”
“You can do it.”
“Please?”
“I’ll do your homework.”
“I’ll let you borrow my bike.”
“C’mon, I’m right here.”
“Why do you let them do that?”
“Are you stupid?”
“SAY SOMETHING, DAMN IT!”
“I’m not going to be your friend anymore.”
“What’s wrong with you?”
“Don’t talk to me anymore.”
And she didn’t. She faded into the brick corridors and back rows of classrooms. I sat near the front, ever watchful, making sure that my socks hadn’t fallen into my shiny shoes.
Meet Lucy. She's a 2010 
{ 1 trackback }
{ 5 comments… read them below or add one }
I appreciate your empathy and insight, though stories like this make me recognize it as a bittersweet trait.
As hard as it is for us to forgive our own shortcomings, it is possible to positively ache for someone else’s pain in a way that can’t be resolved.
Bruce Nunnally´s last blog ..Caddyinfo Twitter Updates for 2010-01-16
More from author
The late 1960’s. Cathy. Unkempt hair. Holey-soled shoes. Torn, dirty panties that we laughed at when she fell on the playground. Mean and rude and not-too -mart, she had more bruises and scabs, she cried more, than anyone I knew. Her story remains a mystery. I hope she found happiness, joy.
Kim Nelson´s last blog ..It’s Fragile
More from author
At 9, it is remarkable to have such insight into yourself and another. However, it is difficult to know what to do to help someone, especially if you are 9 and have the same fears for yourself. Even adults have this problem. I have worked with a lot of children with special needs, and one of the most important parts of the process is helping parents deal with their grief for their child. One difficult grief process is when the child has the same disorder as the parent. Stuttering is especially difficult. The parent cringes when the child has trouble speaking; they are empathetic, but at the same time, they are desperate for the child to be “cured.” Unfortunately, tension can make stuttering worse, which sets up a vicious cycle.
There are some of us humans who are blessed with the gift of empathy that includes the focus on the other, allowing them to help others without being paralyzed by pain. Our 18 year old son has been blessed with such a gift. He is planning his birthday party today, and is including a fruit tray along with pizza because he knows I am diabetic, one of his friends keeps kosher, and another is trying to eat healthier.
Thank God that there are people like that in the world who can give us hints.
Ann (Bruce’s wife)
She makes me think of that precious little girl that was being abused in NYC by the Nusbaums. Well by the husband. Anyway, that poor little soul ended up murdered by their hands. Your description made me think of her. how many other ghost children have there been, and will be? For so many reasons our young needy children fall through the cracks. She just had given up Jane. You didn’t somehow. That is what they are left with isn’t it? Just refuse to give up, or succumb to the pain. As always, stirring up forgotten memories and thoughts for all of us. It sure doesn’t surprise me that you were that insightful at 9, and that you tried to help her.
This makes me painfully aware of how the harder I try to connect with someone, who clearly doesn’t want — or isn’t ready — to connect with me, I finally implode. Even when my intentions are good, as yours were with Melody, somehow I screw myself. Thought provoking piece, Jane. Thank you.
Chris´s last blog ..Sun, Sun, Sun, Here It Comes…
More from author