January 11, 2025

Sitting in my recliner, computer on my lap, I scrolled down the Facebook feed, enjoying glimpses into the lives of friends from all stages of life — noticing their eyes reproduced in grandkid photos, seeing places far and near on their vacations — just mindless moments as the lights from the Christmas tree cast a comfortable glow in the room. And then, I felt sucker-punched. I saw it. Right there on a friend’s Facebook comment. A name I would rather have forgotten. The name I had hoped never to see again. A name I couldn’t even say out loud.

That Girl.

The Mean One.

And a memory came rushing back with indelible clarity — though I probably hadn’t thought of it in fifty years.

We had a great neighborhood back in the sixties — tons of kids my age. Nobody EVER misbehaved in school. Most of us got along well most of the time, though there were typical childhood arguments. I genuinely liked most of the kids, though steered clear of a few who were bigger, stronger, & meaner. But there was one girl —The Mean One, who disliked me intensely — I’d prefer to say she hated me, but Daddy taught us that we weren’t allowed to say ‘hate.’ But now, some sixty years later, I’ll say it: she hated my guts. And I never knew why. Mama said sometimes people just take one look at you and decide they don’t like you. I guess that was it. It might not have been so bad had she just hated everybody. But she didn’t — she sucked up to everybody else, and spent all her hatred on me.

For years, I was the smallest kid in my class; smallest of my age in the neighborhood, and I hated being teased for being ‘skinny as a rail’ or for supposedly dying my cotton-top white hair at the ripe old age of eight. The Mean One was the only one around who was smaller than me. But she was a grade ahead, so I never had to worry that she’d end up in my class. Being at the bus stop and on the bus was bad enough. She took every opportunity to call me names, make fun of me, belittle me, and tell me that the cool girls didn’t like me. You name it, she did it, short of physical attack, and I think she might have done that I not been slightly taller. When we gathered in groups to ride bikes, play softball, walk around the block, or drive my pony cart around, I avoided her like the plague. When I saw her coming, I’d head home. I don’t remember if I ever retaliated; I was a fairly shy kid back then, except when it came to singing and dancing. Maybe I stood up for myself a little; I hope I didn’t retaliate meanly, but I wanted to. I hope I might have been less mean, but I don’t remember. Every minute at the bus stop was sheer torture. But there was a light at the end of a long tunnel — relief was just a year or so away. When we got to sixth grade, she’d be riding a different bus to junior high, and I could breathe. I couldn’t wait.

The end of fifth grade finally came — I was ready to rejoice. And then came the news — terrible news. Yes, Virginia, there is no Santa Claus, and, suck it up, Buttercup — no Easter Bunny either. Mean One had flunked sixth grade and was being ‘held back,’ as they euphemistically called it to soften the blow. There would be no escape.

I found ways to cope — tried to be the last one at the bus stop, so there wasn’t time to be tormented. My most trusted friends, Carol, Tina, Debbie, Pam, & Lisa, were always kind to me and each other, and I knew I was safe with them. I hope none of them even remember this. But I was scared to death that she’d be put in my sixth grade class, and there’d be torture every day, all day. But thankfully, there were four different classes of my grade in a growing school with new neighborhoods popping up all around southeast Charlotte, and I have no idea whose class she ended up in, though I was assigned to the wonderful Mrs. Woods. Once we were off the bus in the morning, she was out of my hair, till Torture Time rolled around again at 3 PM.

Fast forward a year — we graduated to junior high school! Football games. Basketball games. Seventh grade — and I had no classes with her. Whew. Sometime in the fall of the year, we had a chance to go to our first dance. The Seventh Grade Dance, held in the gym at McClintock Junior High, home of the Fighting Scots. My BFF and next-door neighbor, Tina, and I went together. I’m not even sure why they held a dance — we were far too young to date. But it was the time of the music of the Beatles, the Dave Clark 5, etc., and nobody touched while dancing. We danced the Jerk, the Swim, The Monkey, and the Watusi as the gym teacher spun 45 RPM records on what was probably a state-of-the-art hi-fi hooked into the PA system. We didn’t make plans to meet up with boys — heck, though I loved to dance, I grew up in a family of four girls, rarely ever talked to a boy, and besides, boys had cooties. And to be honest, they thought I had cooties, too.

These days, girls will go out on every dance floor, from proms to weddings, and dance with each other in groups — but back then, It Just Wasn’t Done. So most of us stood around the edge of the gym and watched as two or three of the faster ‘going together’ couples busted some moves. “Going together” meant they didn’t go anywhere — they talked on the phone. The only phone calls I got from boys were the prank kind. “Is your refrigerator running? Better go catch it!” My big sisters assured me that the only reason they did it was because they liked me — but I knew better.

The organizers devised a way to get boys to ask girls to dance. Each girl was given a small ribbon, and pinned it to her blouse. Whenever a boy asked a girl to dance, she’d give him her ribbon. At the end of the night, the guy with the most ribbons would win a prize.

Well, that got things moving. One particularly enterprising fella figured out how to beat the system. He asked a girl to dance — led her by the hand a few steps onto the floor, grabbed her ribbon, and Jerked for two or three measures — as in “Close your eyes, and I’ll kiss you, tomorrow I’ll miss you…” then led her right back to the sidelines, shoved her toward the wallflowers, grabbed the next closest girl — and one of them was me. I barely had time to swish my red pleated Scotch-plaid skirt before being dumped back into the dancing pool. By the time the Beatles had sent ‘all their lovin to you’, he’d collected at least 10 ribbons. Coach Ligon got on the microphone and explained that you had to dance the whole song with one girl to get the ribbon. I wish I could remember that kid’s name — bet he ended up a zillionaire in some kind of high-powered sales job and retired to an island somewhere.

We had some refreshments – I don’t remember too many details, but we mostly hung out with our girlfriends, listening to the music and hoping we we looked completely satisfied at not dancing.

At one point, I looked across the room and spotted The Mean One. She wasn’t dancing much either — nobody really was. But I saw her approach one of the nicer guys in our class. She leaned over and whispered something in his ear as she gestured toward me. I sensed that she was up to something, and the feeling of dread told me it had something to do with me that was not going to be worth writing home about. Before I could turn and run, this Nice Guy came over and asked me to dance. I was mortified. It was clear — she’d gone right up to him, in front of God and everybody, and told him I would throw myself off the Tallahatchee Bridge if he didn’t ask me to dance. I wanted so badly to say “No, thanks,”— but he was nice enough to ask me instead of saying “Heck no, she has cooties. I wouldn’t dance with her if she were the last girl in the free world,” so I danced. The no-touch dance steps; the Shag was long gone, and even the Twist had faded, but we stood 3 feet apart from partners and wiggled to the music. Songs lasted about 2:00 each back then. The longest two minutes of my life. After the gyrations ceased, I thanked him and ran back to my friends as fast as I could go. I’m sure the color of my face matched my red sweater. I retreated to the locker room like the girl in the yellow polka dot bikini. Never has a 7th grader been so embarrassed, and that’s saying a lot.

When Daddy came to pick us up, he asked me if I had danced. I nodded, yes. But I was way too private to have told him that I had been set up for embarrassment and humiliation by a Mean Girl. He’d a’jerked a knot in her tail till she straightened up and flew right. Looking back, I’m so thankful that Mama never told us she was Homecoming Queen until we were grown up, because we couldn’t have lived up to it!

Monday morning came all too quickly. Sure enough, Mean One was waiting for me at the bus stop, just like a tiger ready to pounce. “Who’d you dance with?” At that moment, something clicked — her plan became clear to me, and I wasn’t going to give her the satisfaction. I stayed quiet. “Oh, a few people.”

“Which people?”

“Oh, I don’t remember..” I didn’t say another word. And later, my BFF and protector, Tina, affirmed what I’d figured out. Mean Girl had announced to everyone we knew that she’d told Nice Guy to ask me to dance so I’d brag about it at the bus stop, and then she could make me cry by saying the only reason he danced with me is because she paid him. I don’t think she actually paid him, but she’d have said so. Though nothing could appease my consternation at the whole debacle, I felt slightly vindicated that I had won a battle I hadn’t asked for though it really wasn’t worth fighting.

So — I hope Nice Guy never knew that he was part of a scheme — but I’ll send him a copy of this to say THANK YOU for being a gentleman. I didn’t know at the time that he would end up being a lifelong vocational Christian — but even back then, he showed the kind of character that helped him become one of God’s Good Guys.

I suppose that there are people who grew up without being the brunt of a Mean Girl’s machinations. And I hope there are people who grew up without ever being mean to anyone. I know I had a few mean moments, and I regret them all. But I wonder about That Girl. What made her hate me? I never thought of having things anyone would be jealous about. I had never been anything but nice to her. Her mom came to bridge club at our house, and I never mentioned to my parents anything about what she did — not because I wanted to protect her, but because it was too personally painful to talk about. I found out the hard way that people who are bullied, even lightly, begin to believe that we deserve to be bullied. We’re not good enough to be respected. Sixty years later, I know that’s not true — but we listen to the lies that evil wants to tell us. Skinny as a rail. Not pretty enough. Not worth a whole dance. Not smart enough. Funny, I don’t remember much about Mean Girl past that Pyrrhic victory at the bus stop.

Two years later, Duke Power transferred Daddy to Burlington, and we cried buckets. But there was one bright, shining silver lining; I was ecstatic that I would never, ever again have to deal with Mean One. NEVAH! I never met any Mean Ones in Burlington, though over the years, I’ve observed some in work situations, clubs, and even churches.

After all these years, and maybe some understanding and forgiveness now that I look back, I honestly hope she doesn’t remember me, or any of what she did. I hope that someone came along in her life to tell her that she is loved, she is forgiven, and she is free.

After writing this — a couple of days after Epiphany — I think I’ve had an Epiphany of my own — and will quote Philippians 1:3, especially to her in absentia— and I will no longer think of her as Mean Girl;
“I thank my God every time I remember you.” Because I realize now, that she was broken; that someone was mean to her; that she did not know any better — and I’ll pray for her now in ways I didn’t know how to pray when I was skinny as a rail and couldn’t catch my running refrigerator.

Happy New Year, My Beloved Friends — from Beth.

*And I’m attaching this reply—would love to bronze them all…! From Kathy Harris; “This is EPIC, Beth! My mind ( the one I’m trying desperately to focus only on God’s goodness and mercy) immediately imagined that “lil twerp” sitting in the Williams Auditorium during your glory days in Lil Abner or slinking into her seat as you “took” the floor one night at Pomodoro’s! That would be justified lovely karma “right there”… more Godly karma would be her stumbling upon this post or a recent picture of ALL the souls you and your handsome soldier have produced and nurtured. You’re the winner, Honey! Fun!!”