morningambassador’s posthaven

"Fight Between a Dragon and a Lion" by Leonardo da Vinci

When I was in Grade K, the school was right across the street.

In Brooklyn, NY.

Parkside Avenue.

I could see the school right outside of my bedroom window - a smidge to the right. My mom could easily watch me walk to the corner and cross at the light, then into the school. After I was a pro she didn't have to walk me anymore. I had learned the rules of the road.

This was a school where the 'gym' was on the roof, with a tall and overarching fence keeping the kids from falling off.

This was NOT the next school we moved to where I was pushed down by a 'mean' boy on my birthday, or where my best friend stole my pocketed cough lozenge and lied, or we would catch butterflies ;( in the alley with a net, or where a friendly boy invited me to lunch and taught me the secret of making it look like you'd eaten all your food by showing me how to push the remaining spaghettios to the edges to the plate.

What a revelation!

This was the school where my two best friends were not caucasian. I loved them and learned so much about being friends and having fun in a variety of new ways from them.

This was the school where one day I came home, entered the lobby at 4 years old, and an older boy stepped in front of the door, leaving me to face a group of them who quickly surrounded me in a circle, one holding a knife in his hand.

Pointed at me.

I was immediately scared enough that the reptilian part of my brain took over to great advantage. No mess; no fuss. No conscious thought. I just pushed the intercom to my apartment, located by the elevator and asked my mom what to do.

Get in the elevator, she said, and I calmly followed her instructions. Like a little tiny entranced sideshow girl.

When my dad came home, hightened whispers ensued, as I had told my mom the whole story. But I didn't really know what those whispers were about. Plus these were boys I knew; they lived in the next building over. One of them, the knife-wielder, had a twin brother who was a good friend of mine.

The next day, my dad and I happened to be walking past that building next door on a hot day when everybody had their windows  open, and I could hear a boy crying and a man yelling. I looked at my dad and started to ask whether he had told the boy's father... but I knew the answer and stopped mid-sentence. We walked on, but I kept my eye on my dad out of the corners, amazed at his powers.

I was never threatened again.

I felt badly for the ringleader.

My mind works in mysterious ways, especially back then at 4. Not so differently now, it would seem.

*pause in time about 5 hours*

P.S. I talked to Mom a bit ago, and told her I wrote that knife story.

She told me something I never knew before.

We moved from that apartment because someone was killed in the school's playground at night.

Chills. Weird that I never knew. Until now.

Like 'Six Degrees of Separation,' only deader.

How can sadness traverse so many miles in time and space?