Tuesday, November 16, 2010

Not a Costume

Nov 1:  The little boy scrambled and scampered, his wavy blonde hair poking out from under a blue cap with an official-looking seal on the front of the crown.  The symbol was repeated on the breast of his blue long-sleeve t-shirt and on the right thigh of his blue sweatpants.  Head to toe he aped the identity of some kind of strike force member or paramilitary spoiler. 

He seemed to embrace this identity, too - hurling poorly-aimed rocks at other kids on the jungle gym, howling maniacally, sneaking up to scream “boo!” at random people.  Enthusiastic but ineffectual, he would single out a child and give chase, bellowing, but he never once caught his quarry.  I wondered where it all was coming from, whether he was re-wearing a simple halloween costume or if this was how he and his family really chose to self-present.  Not that it made any real difference to me at the time.

Later I saw him off to the side of the playground, with a stocky woman whose salt-and-pepper hair cut was short and parted down the side.  Her hands rested on her hips and sunlight glinted off her darkened glasses.  She spoke to the little blonde boy in low forceful tones, but I just happened to be walking past in time to hear:

“Take them off!  OFF!  Now!!!“ She was ordering him to shed his shoes, probably to keep him from tracking playground sand into his home.  Powerless to resist her, he sat at the edge of the play pit, sullenly unshodding himself, steeping silently in his own obvious bitterness. Oh, I thought: Not a costume.