How to Push Your Best Friend Through a Brick Wall

I earned my first best friend in preschool. His name was Craig Bagley. He, like me, had cerebral palsy. And he, like me, had limited use of one hand. Mine was my left, his was his right. Looking back, it seems like the perfect friendship.

Craig and I met on the first day of school. Our parents had checked each one of us in, and they had promptly marched us into the classroom. A hurried emotional upheaval signified the parents’ departure. After that those of us who had come to the school without their own chair were sitting in those tiny one piece desks- the kind you’d be hard pressed to fit a single leg into as an adult. Some kids were crying, a few mumbling incoherent near-words or grunts, and one kid giggling. The laughter was of the kind produced only by a child that couldn’t comprehend anything around him.

The teacher eyeballed us behind thick glasses. The way her face scrunched and her lips squirmed into odd shapes, it would have been obvious to any adult. She was reading us. Most instructors were looking out for the troublemakers, the kids that would be a distraction. Not Ms. Paulsen, she was trying to use her many years of experience to determine who was likely to have the loudest fits, or which kid would be drooling the most.

There was movement to my right, and when my young eyes shifted away from Ms. Paulsen, I spied Craig with what seemed to be half his forefinger up his nose.

“You there child, they’ll be none of that disgusting behavior in my classroom.”

Craig smiled, and withdrew his finger. From my shirt pocket, I pulled a small package of tissues. Because of the fact that I was seemingly sick during the entire winter, my mother insisted I carried them. I passed one to Craig. He immediately wrapped the tissue around his finger, and reinserted it into his nostril. His grin at Ms. Paulsen was one that will stay with me for a lifetime.  Her sneer back at the both of us was just as memorable.

And just like that I had made my first friend.

So from August to May Craig and I were inseparable. If we were supposed to be sleeping during nap time, we were discussing (to the point our limited vocabulary would allow) what had happened on Transformers the afternoon before. Even though I was more of a He-Man kind of guy, I didn’t hold that against him. During craft time we were giggling about how Ms. Paulsen’s hair never seemed to fit on her head in quite the right way. While the other kids were learning the alphabet, Craig and myself were trying to figure out how the swear words our fathers used were spelled.

One of our favorite activities was to build small scale forts with a set of over sized foam squares that were painted up to look like bricks. We would spend nearly the entire duration of our recess creating these massive structures, only to tear them down as one of the giant battling robots from Voltron (Power Rangers? Bitch please…).

Now I can’t speak for Craig, but it was a great thing to have someone that understood you outside of your family. It was an even greater thing to know you had a bond with someone, united in the fight against Ms. Paulsen’s perceived tyranny.

Unfortunately, by the end of May our first school year was winding down. The classroom activities began to center around wrapping up for the year and filling in any gaps in our learning. We still had our typical activities, and Craig and I were still thick as thieves. Unfortunately, in order to make a story worth telling, that would have to come to an end. Though I’m sure, based on the title you saw that coming. 

Yes, the year that I made my first friend I also made my first enemy. But it wasn’t without due cause.

It was a humid May morning in southeast Ohio. Ms. Paulsen had propped the windows open to get a nice breeze circulating. The children were hustling at the direction of Ms. Paulsen. It was two days before the close of class, and our enterprising teacher had put her underage labor force to work cleaning and scrubbing, packing and stacking.

Ms. Paulsen made the mistake of tasking Craig and I with putting away our favorite toy, the building bricks. But thanks to my irresistible charm and powerful (but still largely undeveloped) negotiation skills, when I pleaded with Ms. Paulsen to let Craig and I build one more miniature city that we’d promptly destroy, she relented. Only after I promised Craig and I would take on extra cleaning duties.

Craig and I happily went to work designing and constructing one more small scale city where Voltron would overpower some menacing alien (albeit while obliterating everything around them). After using every block in the set, Craig and I stepped back to survey our work. Since physical limitations dictated that we couldn’t shake hands due to lack of fine motor skills, we fist bumped (which I to this day believe we invented, but I digress). 

We then began acting out the dramatic scene that was in our heads. I even let him play as Voltron. When we were through the mighty Voltron had extinguished the life of another foul creature, and every block was torn asunder. Not only were none left standing, most were not even touching.

Again, my first best friend stood back with me, this time we crossed our arms and reviewed the devastation we had wrought. When I asked Craig what he thought about our last endeavor with the building bricks, he turned to me.

Wearing that dull grin he had flashed Ms. Paulsen the first day of class he said, “Well it was good,” I beamed, I too thought it pretty good. “But I wish we had more bricks, I mean you’re so fat it didn’t really look like a real city.” Craig begin to laugh.

My grin wilted, my brow furrowed. The initial reaction was that of confusion. Did my best friend, my only friend, just insult me? And then laugh at me?

Confusion was quickly replaced by anger after I decided he had. I clenched my left hand, for it was all I was capable of, I raised it, then let it fall. Was I really about to punch my best friend? That seemed inappropriate, a horrid violation of some sort. He didn’t deserve to get a punch pulled on him without a warning.

“Take it back.” The words escaped through clenched teeth.

Craig just laughed, harder in fact. I could only guess that letting him be Voltron had gone to his head.

Never had I needed to stand up for myself. I shoved Craig as hard as I could. It was one of the few (though likely the most thoroughly satisfying) acts of violence I have ever committed.

Honestly, I watched the scene in slow motion. Craig’s body turning in a semi-circle. The other kids checking to see what was going on. Ms. Paulsen shrieking as she ran for Craig. Had it been anyone else that did the shoving, it would’ve ended in a harmless fall. Craig may have skinned a knee, but he would’ve also gotten back up. Maybe shoved me in return, or perhaps started us both on the road to apology. But my bad luck ran true even then, and Craig happened to fall in such a way that he twisted his foot on a haphazardly fallen brick. That foam brick was enough to break his ankle. And that broken ankle was enough to make me feel guilt for the first time.

So obviously, the moral of the story is that preschool doesn’t necessarily help a child’s ability to recognize spatial relations. C’mon Craig, situational awareness, buddy!