The Ex Chronicles

They say you look back on your first love as a waste, a lie, a concoction of false emotion and hormonal imbalance. We never consider it to be real love, but it still is. It is as much of love as we can understand at the time. That is the negative aura encapsulating the feelings of my first love for as long as I can remember. This could be because it was elementary school. A playground love story that never really became anything much to mention at all. It happened to also be one-sided; a trend that many of my relationships came to follow in the future. Guess I could say this was my first stop on the train of loving boys who could never love me back.

This first love was Joshua. He was a small, scrawny white boy with the most gorgeous blue eyes, and a crooked smile. One of his front teeth was slightly brown. Luckily, his mother was a dentist, so as he aged this became a forgotten characteristic. He grew to become even more handsome as he got older, if only in an All-American type of way, but when I picture him in my mind I still always see him as that same little boy with floppy blonde hair. For me, he was the original Justin Bieber before Justin Bieber was ever a thing. The remnants of our non-relationship only exist in that small, inconsequential sphere of childhood and the fragments of my memories. Today, I choose to remember him as he was then, when I loved him the most, in all his boyish glory.

It was fifth grade. We were friends and classmates since kindergarten. I should never have expected more since there was no way this boy could ever have loved me as I was then: a chubby little black girl with poor fashion awareness, low self-esteem, and daddy issues to match. I had grown breast buds much too early, and to my sheer embarrassment, my mother refused to buy me cupped bras as she believed I was too young. Being Black, overweight, and slightly overly developed for my age was the bane of my existence at the time. One girl in my class, Haley, was mixed with the holy combination of Asian and white, and never failed to mention that the only reason all the boys gave me hugs in greeting was to feel the sprouting of my new chest bearings. I remember feeling hurt, but also feeling confused at the time. I couldn't seem to comprehend why I was the Black butt of the joke for my entire class. But that was it transparently: I was black, and no good at masking it.

I was raised in a predominantly white neighborhood. From my experience, it seems these sort of issues are ingrained into the lives of young black children, especially those reared in environments not conducive to their ethnic differences. We are children who could never quite fit in, but tried our hardest by maintaining bright personalities, and carefully curated laughs because here we could not find solace with other Black children. We simply had to fight for ourselves. We had to be the best at something to matter as there were only three of us.

1) Chaio; he was the fastest runner and an talented artist in training.

2)Chanelle; the brattiest, most abrasive little girl to ever exist, but she was so bold no one could ever step to her.

Then, there was ...

3) me; not so great at much at all, except trying too hard to be likable, and still managing to fall short.

At this age, we are taught how to deal with the painful ignorance of the white, and wanna-be white, children who have yet to learn the broader societal implications of racial inequity. These children didn't understand that calling out a little Black girls braids as a fake weave was not socially acceptable in the adult world, or anywhere beyond our carefully curated existence.

No, those comments are meant to be said only under hushed breath in the office break room after Tamia shows up to work Tuesday with a fresh new hairstyle after calling out the day prior.

Josh had surely been the most popular boy in our class. Possibly, the most popular in our grade, but I was so far off the social radar that I could not have even told you who else ranked high on the list. Funny to think I thought I had a chance with him, then or ever. He was the best at everything I loved, which happened to be in elementary most P.E. games and activities. These were the times when boys and girls were sent into face-offs for a multitude of activities be it capture the flag, handball, or dodgeball alike. Balls were allowed to fly past little girls in skirts. Their faces bellowed in sheer fright as they soared past their huddled circles in the corner. The boys each were transformed into little warriors. They played, fought, battled as if it was for their lives and honor on that fated blacktop.

Besides my prepubescent physical attraction to Josh my favorite thing about him was that he had always been so nice to me. We would joke, and laugh about everything. We'd pass notes back in forth in class talking about any and everything that our young lives could then comprehend. It honestly was all going so well until I decided that courage was what I needed: courage to share the brewing adoration that swelled in my chest since we had faced off in handball at recess (the time when I finally won a match with a killer slice-y).

I like you.

Three small words printed on a ripped up piece of notebook paper turned out to be the one of the most embarrassing moments of my short life thus far. Little did I know then, it was only the beginning of my regretful romantic decisions I would make in my life as it continued on. Quickly, Josh shared with his buddies, and all the other children around, my massive confession, which ensued the backlash from many of peers directly to my face. It was not long until the entire class knew of my feelings and swiftly notified me of the error of my confession.

"Josh doesn't like you."

"Why would you tell him that?"

"He thinks you're weird."

Many of the small snides I received were right before recess where all bets would be off due to lack of proper adult supervision. I tried to walk off, alone, where I could process my thoughts and feelings without the onlooking of my fellow classmates. Little to no avail though because they followed me. They trailed behind me like a sick parade. Watching, perhaps waiting, for my breakdown into tears at the embarrassment of my decision. I just wanted to be left to contemplate my young, complicated emotions, but they continued for as long as it took me to reach the far end of the playground. The basketball courts were filled with other children living life completely unaware of my massive confession, but who looked on curiously as my fellow classmates jabbed and jeered at me to tell them what was wrong.

What else could be wrong than being rejected by the first real crush I had ever had?

"Hey Christi, Josh wants to give you a hug to make you feel better!"

Someone from the parade had called out directly to me. I turned around swiftly to tell them off, but was stunned to a stop when I saw Josh's arms truly extended towards me. My stupor was quickly extinguished because he made a quick swivel upon my glance and retreated quickly back into the crowd, which was now was filled with a mocking laughter. How could I have believed that maybe, just maybe, he was really going to remain a friend to me?

My only resolution was to turn towards a cold basketball pole. It was the only solid source of comfort I would receive that day as the riot against me continued. It took everything in me to hold back my tears, but I'm sure I most likely failed. I don't even remember the rest of that day as I probably mentally blocked it from my brain in order to avoid the pain, but even then I'm sure it was not easy. That first instance with Josh taught me that love is torture. Love is foolish. Love is something you fall into blindly before smacking right onto your face. He was the first of many I fell for, but the only to leave me in such wracking childhood embarrassment. His was a scar on my heart that remained raw for far too many years after. It would be middle school before I found it in myself to love again, to risk the pain, the torture, the embarrassment of my feelings head on. He was the first, but surely not the last of my wannabe, could've been, exes.