Here’s to Childhood Friendships

I once knew a girl. We’ll call her Samantha for now. 

Sam didn’t have many friends. It was first grade in Vedha Vyasa International School, and we would show up to class every day with our perfect uniforms and tightly braided hair. But Sam would arrive with rips in her skirt, her hair wild and free, and the most intact sense-of-self of anyone I have ever met. She liked to sit on the desk instead of the chair (which drove teachers nuts) and she, for some unbeknownst reason, owned a phone. She never fit into the crowd, and naturally, the other girls didn’t like her too much.

I remember one day, I was in the bathroom washing my hands, and out of nowhere, Sam came up to me and started to make conversation. I was six at the time so I don’t exactly remember what it was that we talked about, but I just remember not being able to stop. As we walked to our seats, everyone stared in shock as Sam and I laughed together.

Sam became my best friend. We would sit together while eating lunch, we played together during recess, she tried to convince me to climb a tree (it didn’t work), I asked to braid her hair (it didn’t work), and after school ended we would walk together to the gate where our moms stood, waiting for us. One day, while we were playing catch, Sam told me something. She told me that she hadn’t seen her dad in a couple of years. After I asked why she said that her parents weren’t together anymore.

As someone completely unfamiliar with the concept of divorce, this confused me. I asked her what she meant when she said that her parents weren’t together anymore. And then she started to tell me all of the things that she did remember about her dad, and how he treated them awfully in so many ways. I was horrified, dumbstruck: I couldn’t fathom that someone could be so dreadful to their own family, I couldn’t fathom that Sam was put into a position where she had to hate her own father. 

Although Sam told the story with a purposefully indifferent undertone, I knew that she hurt. And I felt her pain. 

And that, just that, was enough.

I know I didn’t say the perfect thing. I didn’t give her a light-at-the-end-of-the-tunnel speech, I didn’t tell her “everything’s gonna be okay,” or my absolute, all-time favorite, “JuSt ThInK pOsItIvE.” I didn’t tell her that her dad was going to turn himself around and become a perfect person and seek redemption, I didn’t tell her that people were starving in Africa and that her problems didn’t matter. 

Honestly, and my memory’s a little rusty so I don’t know for sure, I think I said nothing. We just sat, in silence, not because it was awkward, but because I knew that she didn’t need my input on her situation. She needed a listening ear. And I just felt privileged to be that listening ear.

My point is, when we’re kids, we don’t really intend on saying the perfect thing, but somehow, we end up saying the perfect thing, which can, sometimes, be saying nothing at all. Yes, we were naive as kids, we were immature, innocent. But we were also relentlessly, beautifully empathetic. We felt the pain and the joy of those around us. We provided genuine, real companionship, we weren’t corrupted by the expectations to always say the right thing.

Would I do everything now like I did when I was six years old? No, of course not. I have grown tremendously, and there is nothing that would make me want to take back all of the years of learning that I have had. 

But there’s something different about being childlike: the innocent optimism we possessed, the beautiful kindness and empathy with which we treated other people.

At some point, whether it’s because we finally realize that Santa isn’t real and the world’s a horrible place or it’s because of the pressures put on us, we all face some level of emotional detachment. We learn to survive, but we forget to live. We choose acceptance and perfection over authenticity.

I aspire to be like how I was as a child. I aspire to be kind, I aspire to care deeply without getting anything in return, I aspire to look past the flaws of those around me and to celebrate their beauty. I aspire to be wildly unafraid of just...being myself.

And I aspire to be like the girl who inspires me, even today, to be what I am, to feel what I feel, and to live life truthfully.

Sam,

I’m using this name in place of yours because the truth is that I don’t remember your name, I don’t remember your face, and I’m afraid that the vague details that I do remember about you are ones that I’ve made up. 

But I feel the mark of our sisterhood even now. And I hope that you do too.

Your friend,

Shreya 

Written by Shreya Arukil