Devonne Brown

While it’s true that a whole lot of rumors are made up on the spot, some of them are as true as they can be. This time of year always causes me to think about the kids I’ve heard about after they graduate. I taught middle school. Those kids don’t come back, not many anyway. Some of them befriend you on FaceBook or Instagram after they grow up. They like to stalk you without you knowing about it, but they don’t like you much better now than they did then.

Some students like to keep you apprised of other’s progress in life. The other day, eleven year old Trinity giggled that Janelle, a sweet girl I had in class from over on Jackson St. just had another abortion. She’d heard it from ZDog, who’d heard from Jimbo, who’d told Amelia. Had to be true. Had to be. These kids know everything. 

“What do you want me to do with this information, Trinity,?” I asked? I wanted blood. “Is there some person I should tell that will give you a prize? Go after Janelle? Is there a bigger reward for “another abortion?’ “ I was shaking. 

Trinity was crying. Some sixth grade girls still cry when confronted with their own behavior. 

“Learn to mind your business,” I said. 

I had to walk away. 

We lived in a town where small mindedness was king and sixth graders’ opinions were flown in on the medivac helicopter, delivered by door dash, wrapped in cotton wool and served up on silver platters to become gospel truth, school policy, and law. The broader the spread, the truer the tale.  ZDog and Jimbo would swear on a stack of Bibles, the holy kind, right out of a Motel Six bedside table drawer. 

It’s probably better to get your reputation tore up while you’re still young enough to get over it, even for Janelle. Nobody is safe from the kid who wants to go rogue and ruin somebody. I’ve seen it happen too many times. Luckily, there aren’t that many kids who try to be vindictive or vicious enough to make up rumors that stick on folks like Janelle. Most of them are too busy doting on themselves, but some of them are mean enough to settle a story out on the shoulders of the last person on Earth who needs one.

I’ve seen a child’s spite bite with crippling poison. Trinity may or may not have outed Janelle’s other abortion, but she didn’t help any. After we learn to cry to get our needs met, we imitate. We watch and learn that telling tales and rumors gets attention. We twitter with delight at another’s plight. We discover the ease of broadcasting far and wide. Children have such power.

The ghosts from Salem’s witches cast long shadows.