Spunk

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A few days ago I went searching for the class picture I thought I had. I had been putting it off. I vowed I would take the time to thoroughly search the staches. In the last I found my portraits spanning from junior high back to elementary school. The last was me in kindergarten.

I looked at it with knowledge but not remembrance. I knew the image, the shirt, details but I didn’t know the boy. As I studied it I saw a spunk in his eyes. There is an eagerness to run off with whatever excited him. I know the reflex, it survived. I had to mute it, conceal it, sneak around, but I never lost that drive.

My reaction wasn’t celebratory. To be honest my first thought was “that explains it, he deserved to be knocked down a couple of pegs”. It got worse from there. I can see the seeds and how the contempt grew so ugly.

Set default to Compassion.

If I do, I see at a little kid who couldn’t possibly understand anything that happened to him. Though his dreams were big, his world was so tiny. He had never been hit, rarely touched. What sense could he make of the sudden weight on his back? Or the filth rubbed into his face? The humiliation was more the he could bare. He was numbed in bewilderment, the questions so loud and compiled he couldn’t hear them. Those small, narrow shoulders weren’t pathetic or weak, they were damn mighty.

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