KICK MS

WHEN I WAS IN THE THIRD GRADE, my elementary school participated in the Multiple Sclerosis Read-a-Thon—an experience that taught me many valuable Life Lessons, starting with how to coerce adults. We’d bully our grandparents for five cents a page, multiply that times Island of the Blue Dolphins, and voila!

“Isn’t that wonderful, boys and girls!” said my teacher, a tiny, nervous lady who’d only ever taught kindergarten. “Reading is wonderful! And curing a horrible disease is wonderful!” On the bulletin board she’d made a construction paper track that said “race for a cure” across the top. Each kid got a car to decorate—mine was green with “megan s.” in wobbly cursive glitter-glue—and every day we moved our cars ahead depending on how many pages we’d read the day before.

What happened to me wasn’t because of the cars; it was the yellow buttons that teachers passed out on Monday. They said, in block letters, “kick ms!” and everybody was supposed to wear them all week long. Can you imagine? I was a walking target—a soccer ball, a hacky sack. “Kick MS! Kick MS!” everyone yelled, and they did. At first, the kicks were playful, but as the game escalated, it got more vicious. Those kids kicked the crap out of me. I’d run to the bathroom crying and wait in a stall ‘til the bell rang. Then I’d wash my face so it wouldn’t look all red and puffy and go back late to class, sitting gingerly in my seat.

The day I cracked was a Thursday. The teacher was moving cars ahead on the “race for a cure” track. “Look at how wonderfully you’re doing, boys and girls! Almost everyone is at the finish line!” Almost meant me. My car was alone at the bottom of the racetrack while all the others were thumb-tacked in a big pile at the top. Everyone looked at me then—thirty-two pairs of eyes turning towards my desk—and that’s when I lost it.

“I’m not reading for Multiple Sclerosis!” I yelled, jumping up and smacking my desktop with two fists. “Multiple Sclerosis can go to Hell!” Then I ran out of class and down the hall to the girls’ bathroom, with its counters and toilets and sinks set three feet from the floor for little-kid legs, and cried into brown paper towels ‘til my teacher found me.

We had a discussion then. Here’s what I remember:

1. “Hell” is a bad word, like “stupid” and “penis.”

2. Multiple Sclerosis is bad.

3. Reading is good.

4. Sometimes kids aren’t nice. Sometimes grown-ups aren’t, either.

When she said that—sometimes grown-ups aren’t, either—she started to cry, big heavy sobs that fogged up her glasses. Looking back on it now, I wonder what adult-equivalent of kid-cruelty made her lose it in front of a seven-year-old? Was her husband leaving her? Had her mother said the wrong thing? Did the principal just fire her, and this would be her last moment in the girls’ bathroom? Whatever it was, all I knew then was I’d never seen an adult cry before. And as I handed her a paper towel, I realized, for the very first time, that life doesn’t get easier.