All My Enemies

When Forgiveness Wins, Keep Smiling

In second grade in Yuma, Arizona, I hated a girl named Dixie. She and another student, Valerie Quintero, were my sworn enemies. Valerie, a chubby Latina with a long, black braid, tried to unseat me as teacher’s pet. The competition brought out my worst qualities. But Dixie was another story.

One day at school, Dixie, petite and blond and the most popular girl, walked up to me with her sidekick, Laura. My eyes nearly popped out—what would the second-grade diva and shooting marble champion want with me?

Valerie was already on my case—I was being tested to skip a grade, which made her insanely jealous. I was similarly apoplectic whenever Mrs. Woodard asked Valerie to be the line leader or erase the chalkboard. Most of the time, my mother had made sure that I got no special treatment because of my paralyzed arm. I had to work extra hard to beat out Valerie in spelling, reading and jump rope. And my new dad had adopted me, so now I was Linda Stoops. You can imagine how much I loved that handle.

Dixie and her enforcer both grinned as they approached me at recess. Our playground was mostly dirt—the better to set up marbles’ games. I steeled myself—Dixie’s reputation as a mean girl preceded her. Laura might as well have had brass knuckles or a big stick—she was a no-nonsense redhead whose glare reduced many a second-grader to tears.

“Hey, Stoops,” Dixie said.

Laura narrowed her eyes. “Yeah. Hey Stoo-oops.” She chuckled, her freckles wrinkling on her nose.

Dixie stepped closer and leaned in. “I’m starting a new club. Only popular girls can join.”

Laura nodded behind her. I leaned away. These two weren’t known for their inclusivity. But Dixie’s beautiful blue eyes, shimmering golden hair and smart outfits were hard to resist. Everybody who was anybody wanted to be known as Dixie’s friend. I’d be dumber than dirt if I passed up a chance to be in the clique.

My tongue had stopped working so I just stood there.

Dixie put a hand on her fashionable dress’s hip. “I want you in my club. I only invite certain people. Got it?”

Laura said, “Yeah. Got it, Stoo-oops?”

Since I couldn’t speak, I just nodded. My insides floated away with that feeling you get when something works out—for once—in your life.

Dixie looked serious. “OK then. Meet us here tomorrow at recess. Don’t be late.”

Laura said, “Yeah.” They both walked away just as the bell rang.

My Protestant upbringing in the desert of Arizona had already been flavored with Wild West myths and justification. I was taught to love God and Jesus of course. But in the dry desert air, I also learned to obey the Gospel within reason.

“Those whose evil has been forgiven know best the tricks and smoke screens we use to keep ourselves feeling “right.” —Fr. Richard Rohr

When it came to those in need, well, they ought to pull themselves up by the bootstraps. When it came to wrongs committed, forgiveness was only possible if the guilty faced consequences. And when it came to enemies, in my world keeping enemies helped you stay sharp and certain of your goodness.

That night I was so smitten with the possibility of being good and popular, I tried on every outfit I owned. My head danced with anticipation as I twirled in front of a mirror, lamenting the fact that all my dresses seemed so ordinary. Maybe Dixie and company would overlook my wardrobe, knowing that I was Room Six spelling champion. I aced every test and might even skip a grade. Eat your heart out, Valerie Quintero.

The next morning, I paid special attention to my appearance, wetting my stubborn bangs so they wouldn’t seem so hideously short. I practiced smiling like Dixie. Too bad about my oversized front teeth. Maybe I’d smile closemouthed.

In morning reading group my stomach did flips. When the recess bell rang, I told myself not to walk too fast. Cool and collected, I sauntered out to the place I’d been told to wait. Maybe now I’d be popular. If Dixie could accept me, the sky was the limit.

I spotted them coming and my heart sped up. This time, though, Dixie kept her distance. Laura stood behind her. For a moment, a golden light descended on my head.

Dixie spoke. “I can’t believe you waited here.”

Laura chimed in. “Yeah.”

Dixie barely contained her laughter. “Sorry—I changed my mind. My club is only for certain people.”

“Yeah, Stoo-oops.” They linked arms and ran off.

Of course, I felt bad. Rejected. Sad. And pissed. Anger licked up my arms like a brushfire in August. I curled my fist and vowed to get even. Maybe I’d tell the teacher. Or maybe I’d stick out a foot and trip Dixie on her way to the pencil sharpener. I had every right to burn with hate at what they’d done. Dixie had to pay.

I might have kept the fire going forever. In the Wild West, we often cultivate feuds and resentments as a way of life. My adoptive father would say they had it coming to them—after all he’d taught me a mean right hook when kids teased me about my arm.

But something about revenge didn’t sit right. Did the fact that I entertained various paybacks mean that I was just as bad? As long as Dixie was wrong, I could be right. Good. Upstanding.

Even at age nine, I knew an eye for an eye wasn’t what Jesus said. Besides, the weight of hate gets heavier every minute. I figured that if I didn’t forgive Dixie, I’d have to lug around bad feelings forever. I’d be able to say I’m good, but the cost would be a blackened heart and a wounded soul.

I sat down on a playground bench, stung, but determined not to become mean myself. A tear slipped out and I swiped at it. Just then, Valerie sat down next to me. Her black braid wound down her back to her waist. I looked up at her and smiled. “Hey Quintero, wanna start a club?”