The Day of Great Humiliation

Everyone else was laughing.

I wasn’t. I was hunched down in my seat, face turned toward the bus window…waiting…waiting until my stop when I could get off that stupid school bus and away from those rotten boys.

At the time I was glad there weren’t more kids left on the bus, but I also knew that it wouldn’t be long before it would come up again at the beginning of the bus route and not the end. I mean, really, if they remembered my humiliation after all those years, they weren’t going to let it go easily.

Before I tell you about the Day of Great Humiliation, I need to tell you about the kind of kid I was. I was painfully shy and entirely compliant. I wouldn’t have back-talked an adult if my life depended on it. I hated to be the center of attention for any reason, including raising my hand to ask a question in class, which is what started it all.

I think the Day of Great Humiliation happened when I was about 7, seated in little wooden school desk. I needed to go to the washroom. Badly. I had already worked up the courage to raise my hand, interrupting the teacher’s lesson to ask if I could go. Teacher told me I would have to wait. So I did. I waited and waited and waited. And because she had seemed so annoyed with me for interrupting her once, I was loathe to do it again. And because I was little and because I was afraid of interrupting the teacher again, I waited until my tiny, little bladder just couldn’t wait anymore and that’s when the Great Humiliation began.

The janitor was called to clean up and the teacher marched me to the back of the classroom where the big box of dress-up clothes was kept. Teacher rummaged through the box until she came up with a pair of bright, purple, scratchy Fortrel pants which I wore for the rest of the day.

Oh, I survived. I made it home, but Mom had to come looking for me when I didn’t come inside with my little sister. She found me in tears on the veranda and she took me inside and I believed her when she said everything would be okay.

I don’t really remember much teasing at the time, but it came back to haunt me on the school bus probably eight or nine years later. I don’t remember what started it, all I know is somehow I drew the attention of two boys who were feeling like inflicting a little pain. Those two boys recalled my Great Humiliation in all it’s misery and thought a nickname for me was in order. Kids are cruel, but they aren’t terribly creative. “Lemonade Stand”. See? Cruel, but not terribly creative. That school bus teasing went on for days. They would taunt me from the back of the bus and I would pretend like I couldn’t hear them and stare out the window at the telephone poles going by. Eventually, they grew tired of not getting the reaction they longed for and they moved on to other things.

The school bus incident happened more than 30 years ago and the Day of Great Humiliation was nearly 40 years ago , but if I’m being honest with you, the pain is still there. I have had a little cry over it just in the course of writing this.

So why, you may ask yourself, am I dredging it up and telling the whole world? Because I don’t think this can be said too many times and I want you to know, I know what I’m talking about.

Words are powerful.

They are living things that have ability to create or destroy. King Solomon said reckless words can pierce like swords, but the words of the wise bring healing. Those boys cut me to ribbons with their awful words and my mother, God bless her, did her best to undo the damage.

But wounds leave scars and I have plenty. I think anyone who survived childhood does, not many escape unscathed. Kids can be cruel. So can adults. My father who is 85 can still vividly recall when as a child a nasty slur was flung his way by a neighbour who hated Germans.

I want you to remember your words matter. What you say matters. How you say it matters. We choose our words. We decide what we will say, but no, neither you nor I are ever going to be perfect. We are going to have bad days, cranky moments where we still say something rude. I did it just last week and I was miserable all day until I could come home and apologize. I was forgiven, but there’s a little scar on my loved one and as sorry as I was, as sorry as I still am, I cannot take back what I said and at least for now, I am very conscious of what I say and how I say it.

Words are powerful, please be careful how you use them.

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