As the weekend came to a close and the time to leave approached, Charley reached out to hold my hand. We were two scared human beings experiencing something so new that it was frightening. I forgot about facades and fake smiles, and instead felt a genuine love for another human being from the depths of my soul.
Robin Hyatt
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My First Experience at Tasting the Raindrops
My blue shirt blended in perfectly with the color of the concrete I leaned against. As my hands lightly brushed the bumpy surface, I considered staying in that spot forever. I thought about the past few days, and I started to cry. I felt lonely as I watched the other students. There were the '"in"' groups and the "dork" groups. All were laughing and talking, trying to catch the boys' eyes, and perfectly comfortable with their surroundings. I gazed down at my crumpled shirt and new Kmart brand jeans, and struggled to understand where I fit in the jigsaw puzzle of the seventh grade.
As the clock's hands slowly turned, the end of the day creeped in, and I stood in my hiding place. I could hear the groans of school buses arriving to take all the kids home. There were already students on the buses, and those were the ones I ached to join. They all looked the same in their navy blue skirts and matching white shirts. Stepping into the doors of a public school meant transforming my whole world from prayers and friends to brand names and gossip. Weeks passed by as I sank
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deeper and deeper into depression. Like my shirt and the concrete, I blended into the background of every situation, halfway wanting someone to notice me but at the same time longing to remain part of the masses. Then one day it all changed.
Every morning I dutifully filled the empty bus seat in the third row on the left side, and every morning I stared out the window and let my mind wander. There, I would imagine clouds and tons of friends and . . .
"Hey you." My thoughts were interrupted. "Yeah, you with the yellow shirt," I looked down at my yellow sleeve and slowly turned around. "Why do you always sit so close to the front?" I couldn't speak, and I got the feeling of comfort you get right before a huge storm when you can taste the raindrops in your mouth. Someone was talking to me. He stood at a height pretty average for his age and looked reasonably normal, so I quickly ruled out insanity as a reason for his sudden interest. The next day I sat in a seat farther back, the day after that one more, and another, and another. Finally, about a week later, I slowly made my way down the aisle of the bus, sat in the second seat to the back, turned around and said, "Hi." From that point on I had a friend.
At first I didn't say much, just sat back and listened, satisfied to be included. Each day I would say more and more. For the first time, when I spoke, someone really listened and remembered the conversation the next day. I'd found someone who cared, and I didn't feel so out of place anymore. My confidence and self-esteem soared and my hiding place started to collect dust. I still lurked in the shadows sometimes, but it was almost like they were pushing me away with their shady fingers and telling me to join the world.
Now I look forward to going to school, and gradually I am letting other people into my life. I owe it all to him. He
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acted like the big brother I never had. If something bothered me or made me mad, I'd tell him. We'd fight like cats and dogs until one of our stubborn minds finally gave up (I usually won). But perfection did not describe him. He had his bad sides as everyone does, but made up for it with his kind heart.
I shudder to think of what my life would have been like if I had never met him. Each day I grew stronger and more outgoing than the day before. Sometimes I would think that he was my guardian angel sent to help me with my problems and pick the best solutions. I knew I could make it and would be all right the day the bus driver glanced back in her mirror and screamed, "Christy, you're being too loud!" I laughed until the tears came because I finally realized I didn't have to be part of the concrete anymore.
Christy Clouse
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So How Do You Boost an Ego?
If you treat an individual as he is, he will remain as he is. But if you treat him as if he were what he ought to be and could be, he will become what he ought to be and could be.
Goethe
Mr. Rickman, our psych teacher, doesn't give the kind of assignments other teachers do, such as read a thousand pages; answer the questions at the end of the chapter; work problems 47 through 856. He's more creative than that.
Mr. Rickman led up to last Thursday's assignment by saying that behavior is a means of communicating. "'Actions speak louder than words' isn't just an empty phrase," he told us. "What people do tells you something about what they are feeling."
He paused a minute for that to sink in before he gave the assignment. "Now see if you can build up somebody, boost his or her ego enough that you notice a change in the way the person acts. We'll report the results in class next week."
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When I got home from school that afternoon, my mom was really feeling sorry for herself. I could tell the minute I came in. Her hair was straggling around her face, her voice was whiny and she kept sighing while she got dinner. She didn't even speak to me when I came in. Since she didn't speak, I didn't either.
Dinner was pretty dreary. Dad wasn't any more talkative than Mom and I were. I decided to try out my assignment. "Hey, Mom, you know that play the university drama club is putting on? Why don't you and Dad go tonight? I've heard it's really good."
"Can't make it tonight," Dad said. "Important meeting."
"Naturally," Mom said. Then I knew what was bugging her.
"Well then, how about going with me?" I asked. Right away, I wished I could take back the invitation. Imagine a high school kid being seen out in the evening with his mother!
Anyway, the invitation was hanging there in the air, and Mom said in an excited voice, "Really, Kirk?"
I swallowed a couple of times. "Sure. Why not?"
"But guys don't take their mothers out." Her voice was getting more pleasant all the time, and she pushed the straggles of hair up on top of her head.
"There's no law that says they can't," I told her. "You just go get ready. We're going out."
Mom started toward the sink with some dishes. Her steps were perky now instead of draggy.
"Kirk and I will take care of the dishes," Dad offered, and Mom even smiled at him.
"That was a nice thing for you to do," my dad said, after Mom left the kitchen. "You're a thoughtful son."
Thanks to psychology class, I thought gloomily.
Mom came back to the kitchen looking about five years younger than she had an hour earlier. "You're sure you
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don't have a date?" she asked, as if she still couldn't believe what was happening.
"I do now," I said. "C'mon, let's go."
That evening didn't turn out so badly after all. Most of my friends had more exciting things to do than watch a play. The ones who were there weren't at all startled to see me with my mom. By the end of the evening, she was genuinely happy, and I was feeling pretty good myself. Not only had I aced a psych assignment, I had also learned a lot about boosting an ego.
Kirk Hill
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Losing an Enemy
If your enemy is hungry, feed him; if he is thirsty, give him something to drink.
Romans 12:20
Last year, my brothers were enrolled in Pioneer Clubs, a weekly kids program at our church. Daniel was nine, and Timothy was seven. My sister, my dad and I were all teachers at the same church program. At one point during the year, my brothers began to complain that a boy named John was picking on them.
John, an eleven-year-old foster boy, was in my dad's class. He was the type of kid who always seemed to be in trouble. Worse, he didn't consider that it was his behavior that was the problem, but instead decided my dad was picking on him. He often took it out on my brothers by knocking off their hats, calling them names, kicking them and
running away. Even I received the occasional rude remark from John. We all thought he was a real pain.
When my mom heard about the problem, she came home from town a few days later with a bag of wrapped butterscotch candies.
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"These are for John," she told Daniel and Timothy.
"For who?"
"For John." Mom went on to explain how an enemy could be conquered by kindness.
It was hard for any of us to imagine being kind to John; he was so annoying. But the next week the boys went to Pioneer Clubs with butterscotch candies in their pocketsone for themselves and one for John.
As I was heading to my class, I overheard Timothy saying, "Here John, this is for you." When we got home, I asked Timothy what John's response had been.
Timothy shrugged. "He just looked surprised, then he said thank you and ate it."
The next week when John came running over, Tim held on to his hat and braced himself for an attack. But John didn't touch him. He only asked, "Hey, Tim, do you have any more candy?"
"Yep." A relieved Timothy reached into his pocket and handed John a candy. After that, John found him every week and asked for a candy, and most times Timothy remembered to bring themone for himself, and one for John.
Meanwhile, I "conquered my enemy" in another way. One time as I passed John in the hall, I saw a sneer come over his face. He started to open his mouth, but I said, "Hi, John!" and gave him a big smile before he had a chance to speak.
Surprised, he shut his mouth, and I walked on. From then on, whenever I saw him I would greet him with a smile and say, "Hi, John!" before he had a chance to say anything rude. Instead, he started to simply return the greeting.
It's been a while since John picked on my brothers, and he's not rude to me anymore, either. Even my dad is impressed with the change in him. He's a nicer John now
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than he was a year agoI guess because someone finally gave him a chance.
He wasn't the only one to change. My whole family learned what it meant to love an enemy. What's strange is that in the process, we lost that enemyhe was ''conquered" by love.
Love: It never fails.
Patty Anne Sluys
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Give Random acts of Kindness a Try!
One dismal evening, just a few months ago,
When the sky was dark and the streets were covered with snow,
I had nothing specific in mind and wasn't sure what to do,
Since it was one of those chilly nights that leave you feeling a bit blue,
I shuffled through a few papers and picked up a book
And without giving it much thought, decided to take a look.
It was one those volumes filled with dozens of stories
That told tales of victories, failures, and special glories.
There was an account of a boy who went to school and learned,
And another of a girl who got the toy for which she yearned.
Then I came to a story about someone just like us
Who decided to spend a day doing random acts of kindness.
Every thoughtful gift and kind word said with grace,
Brightened someone's day and left a smile on their face.
I sat back to ponder the story and came up with a thought
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If everyone tried to share some happiness and kindness sought,
Wouldn't our world be so much more pleasant than it is now
When a few more smiles and time for others we'd allow?
I baked a batch of cookies today, and I know a lady down the street
Who I'm sure would love a few moments' company and a home-baked treat,
And her lonely neighbor who always seems a bit sad and gray
I think a nice visit from someone would just make her day.
Well, it was starting to get late, so I decided to get some sleep
After I made a list of things to do the next day and appointments to keep.
When I got up in the morning I went to school with a goal in mind
I would try to cheer a few people up and find ways to be kind.
I bid "Good morning" and smiled at everybody I met.
A few returned the greeting, then our separate ways we went.
Someone dropped their books, so I helped gather them willingly,
And I noticed the more I helped others, the more they helped me!
After I went home I packaged some cookies to share,
Attaching a note that said, "Just because I care."
When they opened the doors, you should have seen their faces light with glee
And watched their smiles as they exclaimed, "You mean you came to visit lonely old me!"
Later in the evening, I sat down and wrote a few notes
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Wishing the recipient a great week, before sealing them in envelopes.
Then I took a few moments to think about my day
And realized I received even more joy than I had given away;
Because every time you smile or with a cheerful word part,
The warmth of that kindness penetrates into your own heart.
We're only given a short time to spread some cheer before we die,
So why not give random acts of kindness a try?
Melissa Broeckelman
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4
TOUGH STUFF
The human spirit is stronger than anything that happens to it.
C. C. Scott
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Losing Hope
Wherever you go, there you are.
Buckaroo Bonzai
"Hope is the hat rack upon which I hang my dreams . . ."? Oh, please! I crumple up the paper and fling it across my bedroom. I can't believe I kept my hopeless seventh-grade attempts at poetry. I thought I was a poet that year. Obviously I wasn't, and never will be.
"Here they are," I mutter, pulling a stack of yearbooks from the depths of the drawer. They go all the way back to elementary school. Lauren will like these. Best friends since first grade, she's not talking to me now, but I'm sure she'll want these . . . after . . .
"You're hopeless, Carrie," she yelled at me over the phone Friday night. Because I don't see everything exactly her way, because I tell her things she doesn't want to hear. The way I think best friends should. Now I don't even have a best friend. And I can't stand losing her friendship.
I peer into the drawer, empty of yearbooks but still
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containing the debris of my life. Now what would Josh want from me? According to him, nothing. "There's no hope, Carrie," he told me that night two weekends ago. The night he broke up with me, practically pushing me away as I begged him for another chance. No, he shook his head at me. No, it's over. No hope for us. He hasn't spoken to me since. I can't stand losing him, either.
I slip my hand into the pocket of my robe and finger the little container of pills. My stepfather takes these for his back, and I've heard his repeated warnings to my little brothers never to touch them, how dangerous pills like these can be. He never warned me, knowing that I'm old enough, knowing that I understand about things like dangerous pills.
A knock on my door makes my hand fly from the pocket. Of course, my mother barges right in before I can respond.
Chicken Soup for the Teenage Soul II Page 11
