The ways we judge

There’s a boy at my school named Eli. He’s quiet and tall with bad asthma and a terrible stutter, and one of the first things he said to me was “The EpiPen is in the front pocket of my bag.” I’m not an easy person to make friends with, but we wound up eating lunch together every day and searching for two empty seats in our classes. A few weeks ago I told him something that I don’t trust everybody with, because I thought he deserved to know before our relationship went any farther. He hasn’t been able to look me in the eyes ever since.

At first I soothed the pain by laughing about it, and then by thinking up all the horrible things I would say to him if he ever tried to be my friend again. I wanted to tell him where to cram all his condescending pity, that stupid, bigoted, chauvinistic jerk!

And then I realized that all of that was exactly what I didn’t like in him—exactly what he’d done to me to hurt me in the first place. He had judged me, branded me, put his labels ahead of whatever friendship we might’ve had. It would be useless to retaliate by doing the same thing.

So today I wrapped the birthday present I’d bought him back before all this happened, two grass-colored notebooks with a sticky-note stashed inside that says "Because you told me your favorite color is green.”

Because you used to be my friend.

Because you made me smile when I was sad.

Because I cared for you once, and because I don't believe there's any such thing as falling out of love.

Because you brought me hope, and laughter, and frustration, and tears.

Because you are human, and I am human, and that is enough.


-Amanda