Bridget

STIPIMM: Roman Catholic recessional song: "Whatsoever you do, to the least of my people, that you do unto me."

A couple of weeks ago, I helped Bridget put together a video for her mother’s 50th birthday. It consisted of Bridget telling the story of her mom’s life in pictures, most of which were taken from her mom’s photo albums. And of course, since Bridget plays a major part in her mother’s life, I got to see a lot of pictures of my dear wife as she was growing up.

And by golly, she was such a cute kid. (Almost) always smiling, always cherubic, always looking like Bridget. Since shortly after we met, I’ve always teased her about her tendency to tilt her head to one side as she’s posing for a picture, and sure enough, she’s been doing that since she was little.

But as cute as she was (and is!), one thing that she was not was skinny. Looking at the pictures, she was never fat, per se (there are plenty of kids who look like that, but she wasn’t one of them), but she definitely had more to her body than other kids her age. And of course, kids being what they are (i.e., mean), that made her fat.

School was hell for Bridget. She’s been told by therapists that her history qualifies under the clinical definition of traumatic childhood, and it’s hard to disagree with that: mean, vituperative, nasty, undeserved behavior directed toward Bridget, ranging from name-calling to outright social sabotage. Girls who essentially made it their mission to make Bridget’s life miserable through rumors and other petulant behavior.

I myself didn’t have a terrible time in school. I certainly wasn’t popular, but I didn’t need validation from my classmates, so if ever a social problem presented itself, I tended to keep my head down and try to remain invisible. Gregarious loudmouth... I mean, people person that she is, Bridget didn’t really have that option. And she did seek out validation, because her own self-esteem was already so low.

Hearing Bridget’s story sometimes reminds me of a girl who was in my grade in Mustang. Her name was Penny Willoughby and she was in my 5th grade class with Mrs. McLaughlin. Like Bridget, she wasn’t fat, but she wasn’t skinny, and she talked a lot, so she stood out. She was often singled out for teasing and picking on by the rest of the class, and though I don’t remember it, I was probably guilty of it once or twice. I know I thought of her as an annoying loudmouth, so even if I didn’t pick on her, I certainly didn’t go out of my way to be nice to her.

But at the same time, I often felt sorry for her, because she didn’t deserve the treatment she got from the class. No kid deserves it.

And so, I look back on Bridget’s childhood, and I look at those pictures of her, and think of all the crap that was being flung at her on a regular basis by people her age, and it makes me want to cry. There’s my Bridget, smiling with pride, holding the very first cake she had ever made. When I see the picture, it makes me happy. God knows what the kids at school would have said if they had seen that picture; they probably would ruined what was a deservedly proud moment for Bridget. An enormous amount of pain is under the surface of those pictures, even if wasn’t in Bridget’s mind at the time they were taken. If I reflect on it too much, as I am now, I get very sad and angry.

Anyone who was ever picked on or faced teasing as a child holds a special place in the darkest part of their souls for the people who tormented them. Even as time and maturity heal most of the wounds, there are still some scars that never fully heal. I don’t have anybody on my “kill” list from my childhood, but there are only two people (from high school and college) who the black part of my heart would love to see suffer. Bridget, though she’d probably never admit to wanting to kill them, has a much longer and more painful list (indeed, my two are rather petulant choices, hers are visceral).

She actually ran into one of those on her list by total accident a couple of years ago on the streets of Silver Spring. I won’t go into the whole story here, but suffice to say, it was a conversation full of pleasantries and, of course, no recognition from the other person of the suffering she had placed upon Bridget. It was as though two people who were in the same class but never talked to each other had bumped into each other years later. Not for Bridget. No, no, no. It didn’t dredge up all the old feelings of childhood, but it did dredge up some, and Bridget had a lot of thinking to do in the days thereafter.

What I’m about to say will sound strange, but knowing what I know about Bridget’s childhood pain, and the people who did such terrible shit to her, if Bridget had come home that day and asked me to help her stalk and ruin the life of this woman she bumped into, I would have unquestioningly agreed to do so. Especially if it was going to be something as benign as the “Friends” episode where Chandler, as an adult, gets his clothes stolen by a girl he tormented in school (who, as an adult, was very hot), but even if it was something more vicious. Yes, yes, revenge is not mature and healthy, blah blah blah... We Kiowa are patient people and are particularly fond of long-awaited revenge.

But I’m not writing today to express my willingness to inflict pain on my wife’s tormentors. I’m here to celebrate her. I’m here to celebrate that little girl who endured so much, cried so hard, and felt so alone, and yet still managed to smile her bright, beautiful smile. Her life improved as she moved to South Carolina, and her friends and family have kept her grounded ever since, all leading up to the time when she walked through the snow one February morning and met a very lucky graduate student near his home in Tenleytown.

I wish I could have known her as a child. I wish I could have been her friend and stood up for her when the assholes started being mean. I wish I could have given her some of the validation she so desperately sought (and deserved) from her peers.

But I have her now, and I may not need to stand up for her in the face of others any more, but I would be glad to do so. And every day, when she flashes me that smile, the same smile that was recorded onto film so many times as she grew up, I feel at home – comfort just emanates from her and I am so lucky, so, so very lucky, to be the recipient of that love. I hope that, everyday, I am able to show her just how much she means to me, how much she makes me happy, and how glad I am just to have her around.

I love you so very much, Bridget.

Happy birthday, my love.

(And what happened to Penny Willoughby? She got addicted to meth and spent two years in jail. No, I'm not making this up.)