Some Memories Hang On Forever

On a recent visit with my brother, who’s in prison, we talked about canoeing. My husband Gaylon spent 40 years white water canoeing whenever he could, but after one last trip down the Mulberry River at age 80, he’s retired his paddles.

When I visit Blake in prison, we just sit and talk. Other families play games, but he prefers to relax, catch up and reminisce, something he says he doesn’t often get to do. One memory brings up another, and we carry on that way for a couple of hours.

This particular day, the subject of canoeing reminded him of a time he went to junior high church camp. He remembered taking a canoe class, and how much he enjoyed it, except there was a written test that covered boating rules, and the other boys studied together, leaving him out. At test time, he failed the written part, even though he could verbally explain all the answers. “If only someone had studied with me,” he lamented.

The memory of those boys - attractive, privileged, cocky - brought up another story. One of them, the ring leader, called my brother on the phone and invited him over to his house to hang out. Surprised, Blake thought maybe, finally, this kid might be nice. Blake hopped on his bike and rode over to the kid’s neighborhood, and noticed a bunch of kids in the yard across the street. He went up to the door, rang the doorbell, but no one answered. He rang it again, then looked over at the group who were snickering and acting weird. He realized then that he’d been set up. He thinks the mean kid was hiding behind them so he could witness firsthand the humiliation.

That memory led to one more incident, same mean kid, who ended up as my brother’s lab partner in biology class. They were supposed to work together on a presentation, but the kid never seemed to be available. On presentation day, that kid stayed home from school, forcing Blake to give the presentation alone. Except he was so shy, he told the teacher he’d rather get an F than get up in front of the class by himself.

My heart hurt more than usual as I left prison that day. My brother’s life seems to consist of a series of unfortunate events, starting with my mom suffering severe headaches while pregnant with him, and she took a new drug that was later banned. Blake wore glasses and wasn’t conventionally cute, and besides intense shyness (like Mom), I believe he had a learning disorder. He was eight when our father left the family and became an alcoholic. Dad continued coaching my brother’s baseball team which was a source of extreme embarrassment for him, bad memories that often come up during our visits.

It’s all I can do not to publicly name that kid, even though he’s now a 65 year old man. I easily found him on social media that same day, still living in Independence, Missouri, where we grew up.

It’s all I can do not to contact him and tell him how his actions affected someone vulnerable and troubled, who still remembers the details some 50-plus years later.

To be fair, I don’t know anything about that kid’s home life. Maybe his parents yelled at him, or fought with each other, or ignored him. Maybe he learned that cruel behavior from them. As kids grow up, the learning curve is fierce, and they are often mean to other kids. I can’t know if that bully contributed towards my brother becoming a criminal. But, I wonder how things might have turned out if he’d experienced acts of kindness and inclusion instead of targeted public humiliation.