Believe Me

Every week, I download This American Life and burn a CD (no ipod yet)
and listen to it while driving around for work. This week discussed
how to talk to kids. Talking about sex, asking good questions in
general (did you know kids are totally sick of being asked "How's
school?"). One was about a substitute teacher in a German class. One
of his students was being a pain in the ass and he went up to the kid
and whispered, "Cut the shit..." etc.  Well, the kid went to the
principal and the teacher was called into the office. In a knowing
way, the principal asked the teacher if he'd said what he was accused
of saying. He asked about it in a you-won't-get-busted-if-you-just-lie
kind of way, knowing the kid probably deserved an earful when being a
little brat in the classroom.  So, the teacher said he hadn't spoken
those harsh words and the student protested. The principal told the
student "There must have been some misunderstanding". And sent the
student on his way.

This brings me back to my childhood and makes some things clear to me.
There was a time or two when I was told that I must have misunderstood
something and that I was wrong. Now I know the adults were being
little people.

Somewhere between six and eight years old, I stole some toys from a
neighborhood friend. I knew it was wrong and I apparently wasn't very
good at it. One day, dad came into my room, where in the middle sat a
(in my memory) large brown paper bag filled with my accumulated booty.

The jig was up. I was busted.

Looking back, I'm sure Cindy Ward, my best friend Andy's mom, had
called to tell my parents I'd been lifting stuff from their house.  I
only remember stealing one thing. I mean, I know there was lots, but I
have the actually memory in my head of stealing a little hard rubber
Easter bunny from their windowsill in the kitchen. He was holding a
big colored egg or pushing a wheelbarrow with eggs in it. Something
like that. He was slightly larger than a smurf. Seems I had a thing
for holiday decorations.

So Dad sees this bag in my room, probably after he's been alerted that
his kid's a criminal, and he asks me what it is. I think I mumbled
something about "...my toys..."  The next thing I recall is Dad
walking me back down to Andy's house where I apologized though giant,
spasming, hiccupping, humiliated sobs, for stealing their stuff.

I do remember that. I felt physically very small standing there.

I don't know why I stole the things, it's not like I was lacking in
stuff. I do know I never stole again.

The reason the radio show made me think of this was the aftermath I
experienced after my short run-in with the law. Everyone in the
neighborhood heard about it, and I think all the parents kept an eye
on me as a result. I remember wondering why. I knew I was never going
to do it again. Why didn't they believe me when I told them the toy I
was holding while playing with their kid was a toy I had brought over
from my house. A toy that belonged to me.  One time, Kathleen Rich's
mom actually made me give her kid MY toy, because she didn't believe
me when I said it was mine.

You suck, Mrs. Rich.

Listening as an adult, I'm sure that bratty kid in the German class
deserved his harsh talking to, but I couldn't help but feel torn when
the adults passed their knowing glance and called the kid a liar.