Home > 30 Letters > Letter 6: Someone From My Childhood

Letter 6: Someone From My Childhood

August 23rd, 2010

This is probably really crass, but it's perfect. I'm still laughing.

Dear T,

I’m doing this read-a-few-blog-posts-and-reviews-write-a-few-words-elsewhere-do-whatever-I-can-to-avoid-writing-this-letter thing that I do every time I decide to write about something that makes me uncomfortable.  Or something I’m not altogether certain how I should (do?) feel about it.  Or something I’m still confused about.  Or something I’m sure will get a reaction I don’t want to hear.  And this letter is all of the above.

I’ve briefly written about you here. I met you when I was in kindergarten.  You were in ninth grade.  And even back then, I knew enough to know your family was fucked up.

It all started with you and another ninth grader on our block trying to talk me into taking my shirt off.  You asked once, and left it alone when I said no, but she (your ninth grader friend was a girl) was mean about it.  And the only reason I didn’t want to was because I didn’t have any boobs! I didn’t feel like I shouldn’t, or like I was being bullied.  I didn’t really question any of it.  Friends that were my age were always ripping their clothes off.  And hell, I still went swimming in just shorts sometimes.  But your ninth grader friend had boobs, and I didn’t, and I was afraid that if you saw (as if you couldn’t tell through my clothes) I didn’t have any boobs, you wouldn’t want to be my friend anymore. 

Call it the influence of a patriarchal society, or being made to grow up too fast.  Call it whatever you like.  In kindergarten, I knew enough to know that guys liked girls who were pretty and had boobs.  And some boys would stop being friends with you if you weren’t pretty and didn’t have boobs.

After that, I never saw your ninth grader friend with you again.  Every time you came to hang out with me, you came alone.  You didn’t even bother to bring your little sister as a pretense, anymore.  But I suppose that stopped when I shoved her into that brick wall for hitting everyone with a dog chain.

We went swimming together, and played Hotwheels.  We rode bikes, and goofed off.  We gave each other back massages, and hugs, and kisses on the lips and the cheeks, and…

Mom’s favorite genre of movie was anything romance.  I’d seen every romantic movie made.  This was how relationships with boys were supposed to progress! Right?

Even when Dad flipped out when he caught you massaging my back, I never felt bad about the things we did.  I still don’t feel bad about the things we did.  I don’t feel violated, or wronged, or like you did anything to me that you shouldn’t have, or that I didn’t want.

What’s funny is I feel off about that.  Like I should feel bad about it.  Like it should have made a bad impression on me.

Everyone who hears our story says I should have told on you, and that something should have been done, and that I should hate you for it.  But I don’t.  And I won’t.  And I still don’t think you did anything wrong.

You were a kid, too.  And back then, all kids were just kids.  It didn’t really matter what age they were.  You never once hurt me.  You never once made me do something I didn’t want to do.  You always asked before you did anything.  And I enjoyed every minute of it.

So I’m writing you to say I don’t forgive you.  Because there’s nothing to forgive.  I don’t care what society says.  You didn’t do anything wrong.


  1. August 24th, 2010 at 12:09 | #1

    Being kinky, you should already know that sometimes what society deems appropriate is not always what works for us. You’re idea that you should maybe feel bad comes from what society tells you should feel bad about. I think this letter is totally on mark, and I applaud you for going against the grain, and realizing he did nothing wrong.

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