(Sorry, this ended up a little long. It's hard to be honest while also being politically correct and not typing things that you aren't really allowed to say, and I did the best I could, though it didn't turn out quite the way I planned. So, once again - if you wish - do bear with me.)
I had a really interesting conversation today that I thought was worth sharing.
The table I sit at in Art class has 2 eighth graders and 3 seventh graders; 3 girls and 2 boys. The thing about Art is that you can talk while you work, and because of this, you get to know some stuff about the people around you. Or even at the other end of the classroom. This can especially happen on the days when we concentrate quietly and find ourselves listening instead to the group two tables down arguing over marijuana legalization, or the table next to us trying to come up with the best terrorist jokes.
There aren't any rules about what you can't talk about. So we speak it all.
This doesn't mean that we know each other very well, the five of us, sitting together and comparing work and getting help from the others. Especially since for some reason like five more people are constantly there asking me what to do, when I honestly don't have a clue half of the time, so I make up instructions that the teacher doesn't tell them. (Shh. They don't know.)
Today we sat carving and printing and coloring, all at different stages in work, and no wanderers were pulling up chairs. It was just the five of us, eyes to our work, ears listening and mouths speaking. And somehow we got to telling stories about our parents.
Before I start, here is a summary of the people who make up our Art table:
There's an eighth grade girl and a seventh grade boy who are constantly arguing and poking and stealing and giving and insulting and arguing again for the purpose of entertainment and the joy of flirting. The girl is hard to pick out in a crowd, because she likes it better to blend in. She smiles a genuine smile and says hello to everyone she knows. The boy, though as small as the girl, stands and walks with an air of respect, which some might call swag, only I'm not kidding when I say it. He speaks when he knows what he's talking about, and shakes his head at the world when he doesn't. He usually listens to his Ipod with one ear and the girl with the other, opening his mouth to tell the girl something like, "you're adopted" or "go back to China," even though the girl is neither adopted nor Chinese. Both the boy and the girl have about the same grades, and have both been suspended for something at least once. But they know what they're doing, and I like them for it.
There's another girl in seventh grade, who usually conspires with her friend two tables down. She tells ghost stories and sibling stories and stories about girl fights and boy fights. Sometimes her voice resembles the voice of someone mocking gossipy girls who stand together in hallways and insult everyone they see. Sometimes her words resemble them as well.
And then there's the boy who sits next to me who says nothing, ever, except for when he works up the courage to point to whatever I'm working on and say, "I like yours Shady," or "That looks pretty." Sometimes he scrapes his pencil against the paper absently, with his eyes cornered upward, watching the world around him without the world knowing he's looking.
Then there's me. You already know me.
We don't know each other very well, but when your eyes are downward and your ears are upward, it feels safe, and you can say whatever you want. Even if the teacher hears you, she doesn't tell you to stop. You are safe and free and being held back by nothing. You can speak the truth.
So you talk.
About your parents.
About that time your dad tried to choke your mom and you jumped on his back and tried to stop him. About your stalker stepmom, about how many times you had to change schools because your dad kept finding new women. About how your parents had been separated but now they live together, and how it sometimes seems worse to see them hate each other in the same house than to live in two. About how you think your dad must have STDs, that bastard, and how your dad choked your sister because she had been 'sleeping around' and how you had to save her too. At seven years old. At five. At eight. Last year. Last month. About how the few times you got to see your mom she wouldn't let you in the house. About how the porch didn't have a roof so you'd get rained on. About how your dad doesn't let your mom know your phone number because every time she called she'd cuss you out and make you cry.
It wasn't even the conversation that intrigued me, but it was the way in which it was spoken. We weren't complaining, and we weren't asking for help, or pity. We weren't even trying to out-do each other, to see whose life was worse. The stories were told, instead, with a subtle smile. With a laugh. A joke. A can-you-believe-it? Hahaha. All fun and games, knowing it was serious, but laughing at the truth all the same. It got so that I'd stop working. I'd look up, look them in the face as they spoke of survival and heroism and how laughable it all can be. I'd ask questions. How old they were, what the conditions were like, was it raining, was it sunny, which one is more responsible, was it scary, were you okay? Are you okay? And, rarely, a hesitant and necessary 'I'm sorry'.
I didn't want to make it like a group therapy thing, because that's not what it was like at all. It was a word of honest understanding. It was a story. Our story. And as I laughed, I told some of my own - we all had some. We are of the same generation. The generation when it is unheard of for parents to stay married, and when our stories aren't "My dad crashed the car" or "My parents argue so I can't do my homework" or "My mom baked cookies without flour one time".
Kids get hurt. Kids get hurt a lot more than we know. When it's told the way I typed it out, people worry, and stick them in small square rooms and ask them questions that I wouldn't think to ask at the Art table. It's everyone. It's all of us. The government can't afford to pay that many people to ask that many questions, and the kids don't want it, so stop asking.
They get it.
Kids get it.
I don't think society gets how much they get it.
They walk and speak with an understanding that separates them from the kids with Band-Aids on their knees and elbows. These kids wear their scabs open, and don't complain, or mention them to the Band-Aid kids, because the Band-Aid kids are cool guys too. No one hates them for having parents who love them, parents who love each other. Being kind is a choice independent of background.
Kids get that.
There's always someone with a worse story, and the stories usually stay inside. But when you speak it aloud you can make it sound okay. We can laugh and nod and please-go-on and understand.
Kids understand.
Our stories today are different from the stories the others before us used to tell. That's at least what the others before us tend to say. But no matter how bad things get, you can't take a smile away from humanity. You can't make us kids stop laughing.
And it is true that some of them do stop laughing. Some of them really can't go on.
We've lost a few, but we have each other. We speak our stories and know what they mean, and we still keep smiling. We say 'yeah, we get it. Kids get it. I know you were scared and I know it hurt you, but hey, we're all hurt' and though no one says it, their eyes speak it, and their eyes aren't speaking words.
They look up from their work, and look at each other, and their eyes are holding hands.
