“Where did you get those? Goodwill?” Steven’s face prepared to shed its weekly share of tears. I peeked to my best friend at the time, Zach, for reassurance. We shared a smirk, then got back to our work.

Bullying. Harmless to the perpetrator; endless to the victim. Being one of the ‘cool kids’ in the first-grade, making fun of Steven was just another harmless game. Zach and I clocked in every morning, did our school work, and ate lunch like all the other kids. However, our recess consisted of a much more shameful scheme. We would track Steven down to make sure we would get our fair share of enjoyment as we made fun of him in every way possible.

Steven. He didn’t dress like us. His mom dressed him. He didn’t have a wide variety of friends. Nobody liked him. He was not athletic. He wasn’t good at anything. We thought we were so clever, never taking into consideration how our actions would make him feel. The insults could last forever, but first-grade was only a nine-month program. Our bullying spree came to an end that year, leaving me to find other things to do with my time, and for Steven to finally be a free man.

Looking back, I played the role of a complete jerk. The kid couldn’t fit in to save his life, but he delivered no harm to me. I made fun of him to make myself fit in with my ‘good friends.’ Those friends, funny enough, didn’t last beyond that first-grade school year. I found others who differed from Zach and the gang; I found people who sought joy in more amiable first-grade activities, like basketball and tag.

As the next few years flew past me, I grew away from the destructive bullying phase, previously consuming my childhood. Before I knew it, I prepared for fifth grade: the last year that I would attend that school.

I did my best to refrain from running to my class, the excitement running through my veins to see the class rosters. I hope that I get all my friends in my class. I barged through the door to see the faces of my future classmates. I scanned the room, finally locking eyes with the one person I did not plan on seeing ever again- Steven. My face reddened like a lobster with the sudden rush of emotion. Blind to the rest of my new classmates, I sat at any open table I could find out of Steven’s view. I was embarrassed, ashamed, even scared for the misdeeds I committed four years ago.

Today, eleven years have passed since I last made fun of Steven. So what is the point? I can hardly remember my first-grade teacher, let alone any lessons taught in that class, but I remember Steven.

I cowered in my chair all day, too nervous to approach the victim of my previous torments. I began brainstorming how I could talk to him without bringing up anything to remind him of my past. I could push it aside and pretend it never happened. Too insensitive. I could go up to him and apologize. Too confrontational. I finally decided that it would be best to give him an innocent compliment. How could I go wrong with that? When our teacher dismissed us for recess, I knew that I would have to gather the guts to do what was right.

My knees wobbled with every step I took towards the bench where he was sitting. What seemed like forever finally came to a close when I was in speaking range.

“Hey Steven, where did you get that hat?” He looked up, preparing himself for some sort of insult.

“I really like it,” I continued. His face composed itself with disbelief and confusion, as he was not expecting a flattering remark. He hesitated for a moment, then smiled and let out a brief,

“Thanks.”

Although young and ignorant, the actions of my first-grade self have been engrained into my head as one of my most meaningful failures. Even when I was six years old, I could see no lasting positives that came from bullying. The guilt I felt for causing Steven to suffer in one year of school is enough to stop me from repeating my delinquent actions. It is as if I passed Steven’s memory on the freeway; it is behind me, but it will always be close in the rear-view mirror. Whether they are good or bad, important experiences stick close in my mind. Luckily for me, I experienced this failure at a young age, allowing the lesson to steer me away from my first-grade behaviors. Thanks to this memory, I have become someone who I am proud to be.