Kellie
A piece of thrice-folded notebook paper fell on the cafeteria table, next to my Arctic Zone lunchbox. I saw nothing on it but my name, written in a way I’d never seen it before; that is, written in the unmistakable penmanship of a middle-school girl, complete with one of those curvy accents with two short lines across its midpoint (come on, you know what I’m talking about).
I looked up. The mysterious delivery was from Kellie, the girl in my world history class who, as far as I could recall, had never really talked to me, except for one slightly awkward conversation about Frosted Cheerios.
Kellie was pretty, cute-despite-her-braces-and-glasses in that way that only a sixth grader can be. I watched, nonplussed, as she sashayed her way between the chairs back to her table, her friend dutifully looking on. She tucked her shoulder-length brown hair behind her ear and smiled at me. We said nothing.
The cries of adolescent glee began, as my friends around the table realized what they were witnessing. I picked up the note and slowly unfolded it, stealing another glance in Kellie’s direction and honestly having no clue what I should expect to find; after all, it was the first (and ultimately the only) note I’d ever gotten from a girl. The others began to crowd around behind me.
I’m certain that I read the whole thing, but I unfortunately recall almost none of the content, save for one question:
“How can you worship your idols?”
As I wondered, unprepared for this turn of events, how to interpret the hotness in my neck and ears, my friend Drew began to crow, snatching the letter from my fingers and racing to the front of the cafeteria. He accosted Mrs. Hery, the administrator on duty, with the energy of a boy who clearly couldn’t wait to finally see someone else get in trouble. She took the note from him, read a few lines, and began walking toward our table.
I squirmed in my seat as she approached; I did not like the idea of being involved in a conversation with a dean of students. Mrs. Hery smiled at me and explained that I should just tell people, “hey! I’m fine with what you believe, and I’m fine with what I believe!” Still feeling blitzed, I nodded and said “okay” a few times. She left, and we quickly returned to our routine, chatting about whatever nonsense we thought was hilarious and important at the time. I don’t remember giving what had happened a second thought that day, and I don’t remember these events ever coming up in conversation again.
I have no idea what Mrs. Hery did, if anything, after talking to me — I wonder if she said anything to Kellie, or if she just dropped it — but I’ve always regretted deeply that I didn’t take control of this situation. The response I’ve often daydreamed about would have been to walk over to her table, tear up the note, and drop the pieces in front of her. Even a stern rebuke or a mere honest conversation would be more satisfying in retrospect than my utter inaction.
On the other hand, this was, in some sense, only the most extreme example of a seemingly endless line of challenges to my beliefs during my middle school years. I can’t tell you how many times I was asked to defend a religion I wasn’t even sure I believed in, simply because I was its lone representative in the room. The questions were neverending:
“Why are you vegetarian?”
“Why does your mom have a red dot on her head?”
“Do you think I’m going to come back as a cockroach?”
“If I sneak this pepperoni into your pizza and you eat it, will you come back as a cockroach?”
I of course found it tiresome to deal with these often puerile discussions, but at least people were asking the questions. What made Kellie’s note so frustrating, looking back, was that she had never made even a cursory attempt to learn about my background or my beliefs; she instead preferred to engage in drive-by missionary work, passing judgment without comprehension or even investigation.
(As an aside, I’ve been meaning to write about this for some time, but I was reminded again by a YouTube video that’s making the rounds; it’s obviously staged, but it’s unsettling nonetheless.)
On balance, though, I’m actually glad to have had these experiences. Unchallenged beliefs rarely carry as much weight as those we’ve been asked to explain, and although I wouldn’t call myself particularly religious today, I’d argue that these conversations during my formative years actually made me more attuned to my own culture than I might have been had I eaten lunch in a school cafeteria full of Hindus.
I still can’t help wondering, though, what kind of person Kellie (whom I’m obviously not in touch with) grew up to be. Is she a truly good Christian, or did her adolescent zeal become adult zealotry?
I suppose I’ll never know.