Elliott

Elliot was his first name, but I can't even begin to remember his last. He was a small, skinny kid the same age as myself and we happened to meet each other at a pastor's family conference. We didn't connect deeply enough that guaranteed a friendship for life, but I thought him to be funny, tough, quirky, and friendly enough for me.
When my folks asked if I had met any new friends after the first night, I might have mentioned him, and I'm sure they were glad to hear that I didn't just stick with my brothers and sisters and not interact with stranger kids. I've always found it easier to go to new places, sit towards the edge, make sure it's safe to throw in a witty comment, do so and then zip it shut until I get asked a question. Then again, I was a kid then, and as kids it's easier to put ourselves out there more often. At those young ages, we haven't embarrassed ourselves enough to know our limits.

Anyway, throughout the week, I realized that Elliott seemed to get picked on a lot. Maybe it was because he was small. Or skinny. Or that he was too small and skinny to be so outgoing. Maybe it was because his skin wasn't white. Whatever it was, he seemed an easy target for oaf harassment. I'm sure I would have been that same target, but I wasn't always doing backflips off of the stage. I think he did that because of a dare, come to think of it. Whether he stuck the landing or not is fuzzy now and really not important.
What I mostly remember was the feeling of sadness I got when I saw him made fun of every evening. Sure, some of the things said were a little funny, but they were as mean as what you'd expect coming from a sixth graders (and a pastor's sons to boot). I was a sixth grader too, so I knew that picking on and being evil towards another sixth grader went both ways. That didn't make my concern for Elliott go away. I thought about how he might have felt trying so hard to just exist and be accepted, and still get laughed at nightly. I wanted to stand up for him or by him and take some of that ridicule. But as a skinny, shy sixth grader, my confidence level was probably one step lower than Elliott's. So, I watched and felt bad and hung out with him anyways.

Towards the last night of the conference, I remember talking to my dad about what was going on. I told him how bad I felt for Elliott. How there was nothing wrong with him and he was a pretty cool kid. I remember I started crying. Crying for this kid I knew for five days maybe. I wanted to stand up with him, but couldn't. I wanted him to be funny and have kids laugh with him and not at him. I wanted those jerks to quit making fun of him.
I felt bad for crying for him. I'm tough and quiet. No need to let anyone know I cared for this almost stranger. I sniffed up tears as my dad told me it was alright to hurt for someone who is getting a bum wrap. It just meant I had a little more heart than the rest of those kids. It made me feel a little better, and I ended up deciding to give him one of my favorite basketball trading cards as a going away gift the next day. Unfortunately, at the time, I didn't realize I was giving away a Michael Jordan rookie card. That's bedside the point anyway...

I don't know why I still remember this story. It was five days out of my life, and I've never talked to Elliott again. However, I do know that I still get that feeling inside when I see a wrong happening. Whether it's someone wronging another, or someone getting the short end of the stick time and again. I hurt for them. I want to help them. I want to come beside them, drag them away from their problem and maybe go cry with them somewhere. Of course, nine times out of ten, I don't do this or I don't get to do this. So, I either feel bad for someone and can't help, or feel bad for someone, do nothing, and then like myself a little less.
Maybe it all stems from seeing this little kid get worked on and doing nothing immediately. Maybe that lousy feeling I get inside is payback for hanging out with him after the fact. Maybe, I should have been right there alongside those bullies, making fun and not caring. The soul calluses it would have given me might would have kept me the right distance away from people's problems - you know, just noticing them and that's it. It could have made me a tougher person had I never let myself feel bad for this kid that had to take care of himself, just as I have to every day. It could have saved me a lot of heartache and maybe some self loathing too.

What I should have done was kick Elliott in the side when he fell off that stage because of the dare.