Haircuts and Spitbombs

Fourth grade is landmark year in childhood development. I have watched my daughter struggle with appointment calendars, project deadlines, and a rapidly morphing social dynamic that includes friendships with other girls that can crumble (or spring magically into existence) with one single sideways look or playground comment.

Then there are the fourth grade boys. Recently my daughter came home very upset on behalf of her friend, a girl who was mocked for her new haircut. "Stupid!" Or "What a stupid haircut!" was the official response from the Y-chromosome side of the classroom, delivered in a singsong drone that is calculated to convey maximum ridicule.

Normally I would offer a patriarchal speech about 'how I'm sure their parents wouldn't be proud of them if they heard ...' etc. But this time, instead, I told my daughter the tale of Margaret C.

I went to school with Margaret at St. Ann’s elementary in Washington DC more than twenty years ago. Among my fourth grade classmates Margaret was seen as the teacher's pet. It didn't help that she was tall and awkward. She also got As, returned library books on time, and was asked to watch the class when Mrs. Roddy disappeared for several minutes and came back smelling like Winstons.

So she was a ripe target for me and my cronies. She came under fire from our relentless spit-bomb flickage whenever Mrs. Roddy was at the chalkboard. Margaret would hear the snickers from the seats behind, and turn around quickly, eyes narrowed in hot anger, brushing the gooey paper from her hair. Telling the teacher, she knew, would only make it worse.

I told my daughter all of this, and told her how I didn't see Margaret between the end of fourth grade and my senior year of high school. In that time nature had transformed Margaret from a squeaky clarinet to a full orchestra. (My real reaction to this change at the time - as a teenage boy - was edited for content.) I described Margaret, sitting in an auditorium during play practice, studying chemistry homework between her scenes, and casually ignoring the boys who would try to talk to her - or sometimes rewarding them with a knockout smile.

Needless to say, Margaret wouldn't give me the time of day.

This is the story I told my daughter, without any explicit moral at the end, when she seemed upset about the fourth grade boys. We drove along in silence for a few minutes. And when I next looked in the rear-view mirror I saw a big grin had spread across her face.

Once in a while I get it right.