Yolanda

I grew up in a time when political correctness did not exist. Sometimes I think it was a blessing. Sometimes others hurt people without reason.

There is one incident that happened when I was in elementary school that I still bristle with shame.

Her name was Yolanda Sacco. She had come with her parents to Canada from Italy. She still spoke English with an Italian accent. Unlike most of us, pale as a bed sheet on the clothesline in winter, she had a beautiful olive skin. Her dark eyes seemed on fire. Her hair was long, wavy and dark like coal. I thought she was very beautiful, but she wasn’t like we were. She didn’t even dress the same.

Just like today, kids in the schoolyard pick on others. The weak try to find somebody even weaker and try to feel superior. Yolanda was at the bottom of the chain when it came to being teased. Kids of all ages would run towards her and yell out that they didn’t want to get her kooties. It took me years to find out what kooties really were, lice.

Of course she didn’t like it! Who would? Her reaction to every barb was thrown her way was like a bull pierced by the spears in an arena. She would charge wildly after the tormentor, only to miss time and time again. This only augmented the taunting.

One day I joined in the frenzy. I delighted in seeing this creature thrash about like a fish caught on a hook. My nostrils flared with the feeling of power I had evoking such passionate fury out of Yolanda.

The recess bell rang and everybody returned to class.

My mother was the crossing guard at this school. I would usually be home by the time she returned.

When she came in the door, she asked, “What happened to Yolanda today?”

“Why?” I replied.

“When she crossed the road tonight she was sobbing as if she didn’t have a friend in the world. Do you know what happened?”

My mother was pretty perceptive. I somehow knew she knew that I was one of the ones who had crushed Yolanda’s spirit so much.

I would love to say that this story had a happy ending. It would be nice to tell you that I went up to Yolanda, apologized and that we became good friends. That didn’t happen. I wish it had.

The best I can do is admit my mistake, learn from it and, as I often do, send out a silent prayer on her behalf, hoping that she has experienced happiness beyond her expectations.

And yes, I would love the opportunity to meet her again and ask her forgiveness to her face for what I did. By not doing this at that time, I lost out on being able to grow in this experience.