Why standing up for justice trumps being polite every day of the week
Because sometimes, the little things matter
The day started like any other, but it wasn’t quite a day like any other — I was invited to a party!
The Easter Party
On this particular occasion, I hitched a ride with my godfather.
I was excited to go to this Easter Party, even though the hostess (I’ll call her “Dragonmom”) intimidated me a little. I was friends with her kids, and they were pretty cool. She was intense — and super competitive.
My godfather and his three charming, smart, attractive sons, were always in Dragonmom’s good graces. I never knew if it was because she hoped her daughter would marry one of them someday, or if she just made a habit of playing nice will well-to-do folk.
My mother and I, on the other hand, never quite made her A-list. Was I unwanted direct competition for her daughter? Was she jealous of my mother? I never figured it out.
But regardless, we were always on the invite list.
I walked up to the doors of Dragonmom’s abode, an impressive mansion poised on the edge of vineyards, and with a view of the mountains. The mistress of the house herself welcomed Conan — my godfather’s youngest — and I.
With a big smile, she greeted Conan and handed him a little bag, cross-stitched with a horse head and Conan’s name across the front. It was full of Easter chocolates. After I said hello, I got a shrug and a “Sorry, I ran out of time to make yours.”
Of the thirty-some children at the party, mine was the only party favor unfinished.
Months later, I was invited to the next big event hosted by Dragonmom. My father accompanied me this time.
My Faux Pas of the day: Claiming my due
Details of this party elude me; they have disappeared into the endless pit that stores memories colored shades of grey.
But, as I bid adieu to our gracious hostess, on instinct I went a step farther than merely saying good-bye.
“Oh, and I am not sure what happened, but I never did get that party favor. You know, the cross-stitched bag of chocolates you promised me at the Easter party?”
Eyes bulged — Dragonmom’s and my father’s, in perfect harmony. I almost felt bad, but seeing my father’s reaction, in particular, steeled my resolve. So, I smiled as our hostess mumbled something about getting it to me, and my father as good as dragged me off.
He was mortified, and told me off once we were in the car. “How could you!” he raged. By this point, I was annoyed that he was taking offense on behalf of Dragonmom instead of hearing my side of the story and understanding how unfair — if not downright rude — she had been.
Did it matter that I had not received what was essentially a hand-made monogrammed bag of chocolates? Of course not.
But who was Dragonmom to decide that I was not worthy of receiving the official party favor? And how could my father side with her because she was an adult, instead of defending me, his flesh and blood?
Perhaps it was the Dungeons & Dragons sessions I had sat in on, where my brother and his friends slayed monsters and solved problems the size of armies. Or the books I had been devouring, where standing up for what you believed in was always the right thing to do.
Regardless, I felt no remorse for calling a bully out on her actions. I did not expect anything to come of the exchange. Well, that’s not quite true. I did hope that I could make her think twice about putting another child through the same mortification I felt every time she made me feel unwelcome in the same breath as she rolled out the red carpet for someone else.
I disagreed with my father’s opinion about my actions being impolite. I had smiled, remained perfectly civil, said “Thank You”, and done everything by the book. The fact that I had spoken the truth and asked for something I had been promised… I may have been indelicate, but I do not think it would qualify as downright rude. Potayto, potahto — fair enough.
Lessons learned
A few days after the incident, Dragonmom’s daughter came up to me at recess. She handed me a little bag. Wouldn’t you know, it had a cross-stitched rabbit under my cross-stitched name, and it was full of chocolates.
I don’t remember what my father’s reaction was. But I learned an important lesson that day: if you don’t ask for your due, there is a good chance you won’t get it.
And most importantly, I realized that justice is a dish best served, whether hot or cold. As long as it’s served.
