Updated: June 4, 2016
Originally Published: May 16, 2015
Poor Lily.
Lily was that girl in my sixth-grade class, overseen by the elegant Mrs. Roberts. I thought of Lily again yesterday when I came across a story about a father who, inspired by his young daughter, felt compelled to reach out and apologize to a boy he once tormented during his junior high years. I, too, owe an apology to Lily, though I doubt she would want to engage with me or some of my classmates from back then. Since her last name escapes me, I’ll refer to her as Lily, a name I’ve chosen to protect the innocent—an innocence I now recognize she clearly possessed.
Mrs. Roberts and Lily orbited the same bright sun in our homeroom, yet they were complete opposites. Mrs. Roberts was like Venus, while Lily was akin to Neptune. Our teacher radiated warmth, while Lily exuded an air of coldness. Where Mrs. Roberts was vibrant and full of life, Lily seemed shrouded in darkness. Mrs. Roberts adorned herself in chic dresses and colorful shoes, while Lily regularly donned a faded navy sleeveless shirt and worn white jeans, wearing the same outfit for days on end. Mrs. Roberts sported a perfectly styled haircut, whereas Lily’s brown curls appeared greasy and unkempt.
Lily reminded me of someone, which fueled my disdain for her. She mirrored my own past—a year earlier, before my mother remarried, I was stuck with a collection of hand-me-downs. But once I had a wardrobe from Kmart that included trendy blouses and pants, I blended in with my peers, no longer the glaring misfit, the child of divorce with a challenging financial background. Thankfully, that role transferred to Lily, and I was determined not to share her burden.
It’s surprising how often I’ve thought about Lily in the years since. Her image remains etched in my memory: the oily skin, the scattered blemishes, the drooping brown hair that hung unwashed around her face. She had intense, chestnut eyes that darted nervously, never meeting anyone’s gaze. Her scrawny arms seemed lost in her shirts, and her skinny legs appeared swallowed by her oversized pants. She hunched her shoulders, as if trying to shrink and disappear.
I now wonder, after 35 years, if she was just painfully shy or simply poor and introverted—a dark reflection of the girl I feared others perceived me to be. Or was there something deeper? Was she simply cowed? There was something about Lily that resembled a wounded animal. Why was it so difficult for her? Why couldn’t she connect with us? Why couldn’t she adapt as I had learned to do—observe, mimic, and fit in, even when it felt forced?
But she couldn’t. She didn’t. And we turned our backs. Newly accepted into the social fold, I joined my friends in mocking her. We cruelly nicknamed her “Greasy,” our disdain palpable. We openly ridiculed her, making faces that screamed: We think you’re disgusting. Worst of all, we ignored her, excluding her from our games and making her feel invisible. If we had the power, we might have banished her altogether, as her presence made us uncomfortable.
Recently, my sister posted a school photo from that year on social media, featuring every student from grades three to six—a total of fewer than 70 kids, all captured in plaid shirts and colorful pants. With tagging, most students were identified, except for Lily.
Where is she? I found myself wondering as I scrutinized each face, desperately wanting to apologize for our indifference. But just like in school, Lily was nowhere to be found. I noticed one obscured child, their face cut off by someone else’s arm. I couldn’t be sure, but for a fleeting moment, I imagined it was Lily.
I see you now, I whispered to my screen, even if this apology was likely directed at one of the many brats who bullied her instead. I repeated it: I see you now.
Lily, if you ever read this, I’m truly sorry for how I treated you back then.