The red cloth coat

When I was a kid, I was kind of sensitive. I felt bad for the kids who everybody made fun of. In middle school, I would become one of the kids that everybody made fun of, but in elementary school, really, before I moved from Syracuse to Buffalo, I was a run-of-the-mill kid.

There was one girl that everyone made vicious fun of when I was in about the 3rd grade, Allison. Allison, we knew, was “brain damaged”. She was a quite girl with dark brown short wavy hair, pale skin, and a red cloth coat. Alison was not in my class, but we shared a lunch time and the succeeding recess time together.

My friend Linda did not like Allison. She would be mean to her all the time. Sometimes, Linda would go off with other girls, and I would play with Allison by myself. “Let’s pretend we’re Martians from Venus,” she said one time when we were on the monkey bars. I was jealous of Allison, because she got to buy lunch every day. I asked her why she never brought her lunch. “My mom likes me to have a hot lunch,” she answered. My reaction to that as a child was that her mom was probably very overprotective.

One time Linda and Allison were on the paved part of the playground, and we were playing with balls or jumpropes or something. Allison had on her red cloth coat, it was late winter or early spring. Linda said something mean to Allison, and grabbed for Allison’s jump rope. Allison stuck her hand in her pocket, to keep Linda from getting the jump rope. Linda tugged harder. “You ripped my pocket!” Allison suddenly shouted, and started bawling very loudly. Linda ran away and I followed, feeling like a guilty party as an observer. I felt like I aided and abetted by failing to stop my friend Linda from ruining Allison’s coat. In running with Linda, I had chosen sides. I never played with Allison again.