Musing: About a Boy, About a Girl, About Everyone, Really

Recently, I've been thinking a lot about geeks. Not necessarily bottle cap glasses and metal mouthed ones, but rather the quiet, a bit awkward ones. Like the pudgy girl in Little Miss Sunshine, or the boy with the bad bangs in About a Boy. Or, more pointedly, about one of my friends who shows up to parties two hours early toting "You've Got Mail" and a bag of Snickers. Or, about my elementary school friend, the one who wore itchy and striped sweaters and orange corduroys year round.

I'll begin with the former. For the sake of anonymity, I'll refer to him as Evan. I thought that I met him officially sophomore year of high school in orchestra class (yes, I am an "orch dork"), however he apparently sat next to me in Geometry the entire year. My recollection of seating assignments were vague; I only remembered ogling at the tanned and toned soccer player to my left. By logical deduction, I assumed then that Evan sat to my right. He said he always liked my belts and shoes (at that point in time, I was rail-thin with blonde hair that hung to my waist, with an affinity for silk printed ribbons, cherry blossom body spray, and every shade of pink). I looked at him, smiled awkwardly, and said "Thanks, uh...what's your name again?" And without any pride, he cracked his name. And then we played Brandenburg.

Evan was the one boy whose hands always hung awkwardly at his sides; his pale and skinny calves creating a stark contrast from the dark wash of his cargo jean shorts. His mouth always rested in that position of "I-want-to-say-something-but-feel-like-I-can't," and therefore no one really ever knew when he was or was not going to speak. Consequently, when he did speak he was often cut off. Not just because of his awkward lip composition, but also because he was soft spoken. Evan was the one who, when we would prank call people, would call them later and apologize for our brutish and uncouth behavior. Evan was the one who donated his hair to Locks of Love, exposing his knotted and rather pointed skull to everyone for about six weeks later. Evan was the one who actually enjoyed Wayans brothers movies, and the one who cracked himself up at calculus jokes regularly.

Example:

'There's a big calculus party, and all the functions are invited. ln(x) is talking to some trig functions, when he sees his friend e^x sulking in a corner.
ln(x): "What's wrong e^x?"
e^x: "I'm so lonely!"
ln(x): "Well, you should go integrate yourself into the crowd!"
e^x looks up and cries, "It won't make a difference!" '

I suffered through this at least three times. In high school, we all threw parties and get togethers, and when Evan threw them, only a few people would show up. He had the place immaculately set up, even catered to vegetarians, and maybe two people would come. Evan was the one who, despite my cynical remarks and actions, saw a good side of me. He was also the one to ask me to prom via text message, when only moments before he helped me up from the skating rink when I fell hard onto the glossy wood in front of everyone. I turned him down.


The other boy was Justin Buchanan. Throughout elementary school, he had no friends, except for me. He was always fascinated with chess, fighter planes, and he was the only person I knew who knew what a Libertarian actually was, even though I'm fairly certain it was only due to the fact that Pat Buchanan shared his last name. But that's neither here nor there. He had pale, pale skin and numerous moles and birthmarks. He gave them names. His teeth were crowded and the size of Chiclets, but that did not stop him from laughing. At P.E., Justin stood proudly, his legs splayed shoulder length apart, and hands firmly placed on his copper corduroy shorts. But when we had to run a mile, he would suddenly have a "migraine" and need to sit underneath the pavilion. I did too, but that was mainly because I preferred playing in the computer lab during recess. Justin was the boy, who, when hot, took off his striped sweater rather inconspicuously and continued to write his D'Nealian alphabet bare chested. I thought he was great.

Most mornings, Justin's mom would drop him off at our house in her cobalt blue Toyota. She worried about him being picked on at school. She always said that whenever she told Justin that she'd be dropping him off at my house in the morning, he would sleep in his school clothes because he was so excited. Whenever he came to our house, he'd always remark about the "wild jungle theme" of our front yard. The truth was that our hedges need to be trimmed, and our flowerbeds needed to be weeded.

He was a sad boy, though. Looking back, I'm fairly certain he had some kind of social anxiety disorder, for kids liked to do little things to hear him scream. They'd draw penises on his notebooks, call him a girl, and he would cry and carry on like there was no tomorrow. I remember one day he went to the bathroom (this classroom had a restroom in it), and the kids thought it would be funny to lock him in it. And then we left for recess. When we came back, Mrs. Hannan, my teacher, finally heard the banging and screaming of Justin from the bathroom, and then unlocked the door. In an instant, he came running out, sans corduroy pants (and underwear) and tears streaming down his face. All of the boys and girls laughed at him, and he hung his head in embarrassment. His eyes met mine, and then I looked away.

During the next few days, kids kept calling me Mrs. Buchanan, and I found myself becoming embarrassed of him. He would try to play Oregon Trail with me in the computer lab during recess, I would agree, but then go to the playground instead. I told my mother I was doing safety patrol at school in the mornings, and Justin couldn't go with us to school anymore. It was a horrible lie, only the sixth grade elite were eligible for the neon orange vest. But it didn't matter to me, I didn't want to be associated with the "geek" any longer. I no longer spoke to him at soccer practice (we were on the same team), and instead of going easy on him while he was playing goalie, I made it a goal to score every time (no pun intended). And generally, I did.

One night as we were finishing practice and I had just downed my last Capri-Sun, I lackadaisically kicked the size 4 ball toward the line of lawn chairs where all of the parents would sit. I saw my mom talking to the real Mrs. Buchanan. She said she received a phonecall from Mrs. Mentillo (the computer lab teacher) earlier, asking about Justin. Mrs. Mentillo said that he had been upset lately, and that I hadn't been around. When she asked why he was upset, he put his hands over his head and began to cry, and said that he felt there was something wrong with him. Mrs. Mentillo asked about me, and she said he began to sob. "She's my best and only friend," he said, and then he was unable to speak anymore. Apparently I had stopped in my tracks listening to the story, for Mrs. Buchanan and my mom stared back at me. I pretended to be looking at something else, and then walked away.

On the car ride home, my mom asked me about Justin. I lied and told her that everything was fine, and we were still friends at school. And then, I never spoke to him again. In truth, we were soon in different classes, and he quit soccer, so opportunities to see him were slim. But, when I did, he was always alone and always trying to erase various reproductive parts from his composition book. Occasionally we would make eye contact, and I would nervously smile, but then I would always walk away. Each step I took placed him further, both literally and figuratively, from my mind, until the point where I forgot how cruel I was to him at all.


The other day, Evan invited a group of people over to his house for a memorial day cookout. Knowing it was in the afternoon, I still decided it was necessary to drink myself stupid with my girlfriends the night prior to it. Knowing that nearly everyone would cancel on him, I decided to cancel on him too in order to nurse my hangover. Closing my eyes and placing my head on my goosefeather pillows, I felt immediately absolved of any guilt.

My point is, I guess, that no amount of steps or pillows can erase an action. It's still there, and the Justin is still there, and Evan is too. I still remember what I did, they still remember what they did, and people who saw what I did remember what I did, and for that matter, didn't do. I still remember when someone told me that I had a lot of "pork and meat" on me, and so I stopped eating. I was labelled as "fat girl," and therefore it was OK to call me names. I labelled Justin and Evan as "geeks," and made fun of them accordingly.

Who knows what became of Justin. I'm not going to be so bold as to say that my words changed who he was as a human being, but let's be honest--when kids in high school made fun of two boys every day, they came to school in trenchcoats with machine guns and killed said kids.

We take away names and replace them with labels, because labels aren't as personal. I find myself doing it daily. The mother in the minivan driving the speed limit isn't a concerned parent, she is a soccer mom with little to no interests except living vicariously through her children. What scares me most is its effect on the individual. American pragmatist George Mead would say that the self is socially-constructed. Well, shit. Does that mean that if all one hears is that they are geeky, a loser, and pathetic they will feel all of the above? Yes. It's a self-fulfilling prophecy. You don't have an "a priori" self, it's all a posteriori and composed of ignorant stereotypes of a bunch of assholes. See, I'm even complaining about labelling, but calling all people who label "assholes." Fuck. But if this is true, then, one's self isn't concrete, it's completely subjective and not up to the individual. Maybe Justin thought of himself as "cool," but what did it matter? Everyone else still thought he was a dork.

The point is that nothing good comes from them. I will always regret kicking the ball extra hard and extra fast into the goal because Justin was a geek, and I'll always regret cancelling on Evan because I'd rather hang out with my societally-constructed "cooler" friends. I hate it when people label me as a bitch, but what can I expect when I've already done the same to them? I strive to act as if my actions could be universal law (thanks, Kant), but if that was the case, there would be no people, only labels. I'm not hopeless, though. Although I'm a cynic, I think people can change. Emotions and attitudes are not static, and that is thrilling and terrifying.