March 4, 2008

• Da Brat

  The summer between Frosh/Soph years of high school, I took a trip back to my hometown in Illinois to visit my childhood best friend (CBF), grandparents, and various other dear relatives.  In a tradition quite unfamiliar to my west coast cohorts, my old neighborhood block held their annual Block Party while I was visiting.

   

  As a kid, I relished the annual Block Party.  The thoroughfare was blocked from traffic, which gave us kids carte blanche access to the street with our bikes, Big Wheels, jump ropes, boom boxes—you name it, we took it to the street that day.  As you can imagine, at the tender age of 15 (and visiting from out of state), I didn't exactly care to ride up and down the street aimlessly.  I was trusted to do that at anytime by then.

   

  "What did I do then?" you ask.  Well, mingled with my friend, her older sister, and the adults, I guess.  I was often the lone friend that would rather sit around with my friends' parents rather than be upstairs playing videogames and the like with my peers.  I just wasn't that into videogames.  And the like.

   

  One of the old neighbors (old as in used to live on the block, but moved across town), presumably after he's had a few Old Style Lights, "You know, I really thought you were a brat when you were a little kid.  I'm glad to see you've grown out of it."

   

  I was a little bit horrified by his comment.  I had never been called a brat, except maybe jokingly, in all my 15 years.  I asked Old Neighbor to elaborate and shed some light on his recollection of the child Zest.  All he could add was that he essentially thought I was a cocky little thang that pranced (or as my parents would remember--cart-wheeled) up and down the block; that he worried I would be a bad influence on CBF, who was to Old Neighbor, the girl next door.

   

  Wow.  I had no idea in all the years that had passed since he moved from the neighborhood until that moment that I was remotely looked upon as a brat.  I wasn't spoiled.  I didn't have any more material wealth than CBF (in fact she and her siblings had way better toys than I ever did).  The only thing that I can guess made him resent my presence was that I was a happy, pretty, little blonde girl naïve to the not-so-happy-pretty-little-blond-girl-world in which Old Neighbor lived.

   

  If I'm not mistaken, I think I have recently learned that he is a pretty prolific libertarian journalist.  I'm sure there's some irony in that somewhere, but I'm too lazy to do the math.  But I digress.

   

  So not in all of my 30 years, have I since been called a brat (except for jokingly, because face it—I can be a complete smartass).  That is, until today.  And this accusation came from the unlikeliest of places.

   

  Today, I was called a brat by The One, The Only…the Fella.

   

  To be fair, he actually said "bratty," but still.  It got me wondering, have I actually been a brat all these years without even knowing it?  Now I may not be the best judge, but maybe twice in 30 years does not an absolute make.

  • 2:40 am
  • 1 Comment