Before all the parents start going off on me about how I’m a bad influence on their kids (which trust me, I don’t have to be – I didn’t start cursing til I was in eighth grade and I hear their eight year olds saying the eff word all by themselves), I’m not saying I had a boyfriend in 2nd Grade or that your kids should. No, I’m about to tell you the story of the time my mother thought I had a crush on you in 2nd Grade which was total b.s. But it’s a funny story. Kind of. Maybe. I don’t know. You tell me.
We were in the bus stop, me and all the girls, waiting for our mothers to get there, one by one or in pairs. God knows where all the boys were. There seemed to be so few around back then or maybe you guys were doing your own thing. For some reason, the girls started debating which of the boys in class was hottest. Now, who do I blame for seven-year-old us being so corrupted at such a little age? But we were. Well, they were. It wasn’t until that next year that I began to corrupt. At this point, there was some significant emotional damage done to me but I had yet to discover the romantic outlets I could use to heal myself.
It came down to you and one other guy and, based on his name, it was quite ironic that I didn’t call him my Prince Charming. But again, that desire for Prince Charming wasn’t born yet. While all my friends deemed him the hottest, me always being the odd one out with eccentric tastes said you were the one I liked. Maybe it was because even back then, emotional connections meant so much and I found someone more attractive when there was an emotional bond. (Actually that’s probably the reason I think my Best Love is the best looking second only to Jagapathi or Raj, the fictionalized version of him in my imagination).
My friends all became shocked and because I was the only one who liked you it became a thing. And me being seven and not yet corrupted, I made the terrible mistake of calling you my “boyfriend”.
Because how the hell was I supposed to know that:
The next thing I know, because seven-years-olds talk, less than a week later (I can’t remember exactly how long) I find my mother asking me what I was doing crushing on boys instead of concentrating on school.
Sorry, let me interrupt my conversation with you for a note to the parents of the world – the worst thing you can do if you think your child has a crush, putting aside whether or not it’s true, is make them feel guilty for it. Trust me, it inadvertently makes them trust you less. It made me trust her a lot less. And the second worst thing you can do is call up your sister in Boston and tell her about it, embarrassing your child even further. Because as much as they’re your child, it’s their story to tell, not yours. But hey, after today, the world can tell whoever the fuck it wants because at least my perspective is out there to compare the facts to.
Okay, back to you… Oh, wow – I just realized, I don’t have a code name for you. I suppose, you’re just gonna be the 2nd Grade “BF” from now on. Anyways, 2nd Grade “BF”, where was I? Oh yeah, my mother asks me why I was spending my time crushing on you instead of studying. Not like my disinterest in school between the ages of six-ish and thirteen-ish had anything to do with you or any other crush in the history of forever and more to do with the fact that I didn’t see the point of learning solely for a grade, but why did that matter, right?
Anyways, that incident led to a long run of me no longer trusting her. I’m always talkative, we know that much. So, I would talk. Come home and tell her about my day. But only enough to make her think she knew me. It was funny, for years, she would tell me how she was my mother and mother knows best. Parents don’t know best. They only know what would’ve been best for them when they were young. And some of them try their best. And some of them do their worst. I suppose the perspective of the child in consideration decides that.
You know why you’re still one of the stories I tell? Because it has less to do with you and more to do with how I obtained this label of “boy-crazy”. At a time when I didn’t even know what love or crushes or romance was, the world decided I did.
At home, I had to fight off the label.
But at school, I had to do the opposite. Because no one cares about misunderstandings and miscommunications when you’re seven. You say one thing and you stick to it until 7th grade when you move to the next town over. And then the cycle repeats except this time you do know the meaning of romance – not love, but romance.
But that’s a story for another time.
For now, I’ll leave you with this: This is also the story of the beginings of my trust issues. Perhaps if she knew my perspective, we could’ve trusted each other more. But is it too late now?
Because I’ve reach a point of I don’t give a damn either way as long as I’m able to live my life of my terms, autonomous and unobstructed. I could care less about being trustworthy for her because I no longer trust her.
You make one stupid mistake (you decide who made that mistake) and it spirals into twelve years of hiding who you are not because you’re afraid of what she’ll think but because you know she’ll tell someone even if you ask her not to.
Had I never known you or had I never known those girls who were corrupted long before I was, perhaps I’d still know her. I’m not blaming you. I’m not blaming anyone. I’m saying this is how life works.
A million years ago, some moron decided love is bad. And that caused a rift between me and my mother.
