The Idea of an Essay, Volume 3

Narrative & Memoir 57 brimstone preacher. The speech was full of all the moments of hurt between Shianne and me over Damon and her. All the mistakes she had made. But as I watched Shianne’s face, a little voice inside of me was saying, “stop! Stop!” By the time I finished, I was speaking the words I had written so fast that it was a wonder anyone could understand them. When the words stopped, the class sat in stunned silence. Now my face was red too. I don’t remember what happened following my delivery of that rant, but I remember a day after that, as things got worse between Shianne and me, when she sat at a different table than me for lunch. We had persevered in sitting together despite everything until then. Suddenly, I looked over and realized she was crying. When I went over to check on her she was sobbing to the other girls about how she thought I was better than her. This was the first time I had ever seen any evidence that all of my words were getting to her. I was astonished, but also sadly gratified. And the most despicable thing was that I didn’t contradict her. I just sat there and listened. I was wrong. I was so wrong! The whole time I was reading my rant in Mr. Peters’ class, Shianne wore a cute, appropriately embarrassed grin. And I was infuriated because it seemed as though my speech hadn’t made a dent. I had wanted to hurt her because I felt so hurt by her. I used to cry at least once a week because of how Shianne hurt my feelings daily. But now as I look back, I imagine there was panic in her eyes. Shianne always kept a smile on her face every time I tried to get her back for hurting me as if she were laughing at me or as if it were all a big joke, so I tried harder to hurt her. Now I know that it must have hurt her every time. We are always wounded by cutting words- whatever we choose to show. So I must have cut her up real good. After that year I don’t remember writing too much anymore- at least never again in the free and boundless way I did in fourth grade before Shianne and I fought. I think back to elementary school when I used to love writing and I had a passion for it, and I realize I lost that passion. Now, people still say I’m good at it, but I only write to get by. I don’t have the same love and imagination for it. Writing reminds me of elementary school and of Shianne. I helped her in reading and writing in school because she wasn’t good at it. I used my status as a good writer to set myself apart and prove that I was better than her. I wrote that terrible speech about her.