I know how to spar with words.
I think it can be fun. I like to be clever. I like to be quick. I like to go in for the kill.
But I found something I like more: kindness.
The other day, there was a lizard in the road and, when I picked it up to get it to safety, I knew it was too late. There was no life left. I felt a weight in my chest as I carried the little body into the grass.
I remembered my own cat’s body in my arms earlier this year — feeling the warmth leave him. I remembered the snake I tried to save in junior high. I remembered the caterpillars, worms and ants I befriended in our front yard when I was just a little kid. I remembered being upset when I realized the neighbor girl I looked up to was killing lightning bugs, wearing their last glows like earrings.
And I remembered my dad saying: “Aww, little baby is gonna cry” in a mocking way.
I hadn’t remembered that before. Memory is weird. Suddenly, it was all I could hear, over and over again. I wanted to cry and felt myself try to refuse. Even now, years after embracing my tears, I could feel the shame of it.
Now, I wonder, did he say this to me? Or did I witness him saying it to my brother? I didn’t understand there was such a difference between the boys and I, so, for my sake, the lesson was the same: If you cry, you’ll be made fun of.
I sure didn’t want to be made fun of. I had two older brothers for that. Did they do it because my dad started it? More and more, the memories come. Yes, my dad made fun of me. Did he think this teasing was playful? Would a less-sensitive kid agree?
When I was little, I cried a lot. I didn’t let things go. I wanted justice!
If my brother hit me, he should be punished. If he threw my Barbie, he should be punished. If he was hogging a toy, he should be forced to share.
I think I just wanted to be included. I wanted my brothers to want to hangout with me. I wanted to play their video games with them, I wanted to be in baseball and Boy Scouts with them.
Being the narc, however, didn’t give me the respect and attention I thought I deserved as a little sister. If anything, it made me more the enemy.
I needed to beat them at their own games: I needed to learn how to be mean. I needed to learn how to be a bully back.
First, I had to stop crying. I don’t know what led to it — I don’t think it was a conscious decision, but I did stop crying. Instead, maybe I’d pout or complain. No tears. I don’t know how long it lasted or how good my memory is, but I think I stopped crying when my parents got divorced and only teenage hormones (and boys) would bring them back.
After that, my power was in my words. I wouldn’t be able to kill them with kindness, like I had hoped, or best them in strength. But words … I could figure that one out.
Then I was called “dumb” or some inappropriate equivalent. “Dumb” I could handle because that was the one thing I knew wasn’t true. I may be fat, I may be ugly, I may be annoying, but, damnit, my grades are better than yours and I know I am not dumb.
“You’re dumb” was a concession. It meant they realized it wasn’t worth picking on me … or whatever I said was pretty good and somehow defused the situation.
Verbal jabbing as sport may run on my dad’s side of the family. My mom’s family does it too but without the guise of being good natured.
Once, when I was a teenager, I recall sparring with my paternal grandfather. He remarked on how good I was at it. He seemed impressed. I was proud.
Sparring like this was also a characteristic in a few of my young relationships and my now-defunct marriage. We used to say we liked to “debate,” but we could get pretty mean spirited — all in the name of fun. When the relationship started to erode and the words no longer had love around them, they stopped being funny.
A man I dated after that didn’t like this style of communication. He asked: “Why can’t we just be nice to each other?”
It was so innocent and sweet. It stopped me in my tracks.
The question seemed fair enough, so I decided to try it.
Years later and I’m still trying it. When I get teased now in the way my ex-husband and I used to tease each other, I cringe. Sometimes a clever comeback comes to mind. I resist. On the other side of me is the person I love. The risk of hurting them isn’t worth the win. Neither is the risk of falling back into the jabbing trap.
I have found I quite prefer kindness.
I quite prefer warmth.
I prefer soft and cozy.
I prefer to live in a world where the lizards don’t get run over, the fireflies fly free, and the cats get to choose when they come to you. Growing up, it’s easy to forget who we are. It is easy to forget we once liked insects and got excited every time we saw a “kitty.” We’ve been taught that it is lame, stupid — dumb, even — to love these things, to show our excitement, to let our true selves shine through.
I have adult Maria’s strength for when I need it, but I wish I didn’t need it because I much prefer little Maria’s light.
I prefer her kind of gentleness.
I prefer her kind of love.