written Tuesday, September 1 2015
I believe this trauma began in kindergarten.
I was six years old, a new student transferred in at the beginning of the last quarter of the year. The other children in my class had spent the last six months pairing off into their first friendships–some of which would turn out to be lifelong. At this age, my shyness had not swallowed me yet, and I was still a very curious and friendly child. Though I arrived terribly late in the year, I managed to weasel my way into the previously organized group pretty deftly. The other children were eager to befriend a new student, and this worked to my advantage. I was overwhelmed by the support of the new children. I felt no allegiance to my old classmates–I loved my new ones so much more than I had the others.
At Illinois kindergarten we did not have tables like we had in Michigan kindergarten. We had two rows of carpeted steps, steep enough to sit on as though it was a tiny auditorium. Our teacher sat in a large rocking chair in front of us with the blackboard behind her. I loved kindergarten.
There was one boy in Illinois kindergarten, we’ll call him Kyle. Kyle was the first boy in my life who was unafraid of displaying his affection for me publicly, and it mortified me. Kyle would insist on sitting next to me on the steps at the beginning of the day, and I grew to despise the insistence of our teacher’s “boy, girl, boy, girl” seating chart. He drew pictures of me and gave them to me in front of everyone. M friends teased me about his crush, taunting that I returned his feelings.
“No way,” I remember telling them. “I can’t stand him. I wish he would just leave me alone.”
I remember being humiliated the day Kyle came to school bearing invitations to his birthday party. He passed one out to every boy in the class, and then he sheepishly tossed one in front of me. I cried all the way home.
Another disturbingly vivid memory of Kyle takes place on the school playground. Kyle and a few other boys had infiltrated our girls-only game of tag. I watched in horror as one of the other children tagged Kyle–he was “it”. I froze, and Kyle saw an opportunity. He came thundering at me (as only a six year old boy can) and I ran for my life. He was screaming my name and making kissing noises. I ran straight into the arms of one of our playground aides, crying and sputtering. When she asked me what was wrong, I buried my face in her chest and screamed at the top of my lungs, “KYLE IS TRYING TO KISS ME!”.
Anyway, this was clearly just some childhood innocence against the backdrop of my dramatic memory (which has improved a bit with age, but not by much) and a little boy who had no control over his very scary, upsetting, animalistic attraction to my kindergarten self. However, it’s important to remember that I was truly terrified of this boy. I lived in constant fear of Kyle approaching me, talking to me, trying to kiss me…
I am still like this today, with grown men, and for this reason I am dreading Thursday and now at 23, instead of fearing Kyle, I am living in constant fear of the man who removes the medical waste at my office.
caitlin adair 