We joined hands and sang “Ring Around the Fatso” to the tune of “Ring Around the Rosie.”
We were fourth graders, and that’s what we did that autumn day at recess. The student in the center, a boy I’ll call Joseph, smiled at first, and as we circled him, he ran in a circle too, almost tripping over his long legs, which were big enough for a ninth grader and supported a weight more typical of a grown man.
Perhaps Joseph hoped that by playing along, he could transform this moment of ridicule into something else. But that’s not what happened. More members of the class joined in, and our singing grew louder. A momentum took hold that seemed to carry all of us, each now a small part of a big, ugly thing.
We continued singing until some of the kids, myself included, heeded the lyrics by falling down. The circle splintered, a little at first and then entirely, and groups of kids began walking away from Joseph, an exodus as cruel in its own way as the song. Joseph regained his balance and walked alone, head down, toward the doors of our elementary school.
I am not sure how our teacher, Mrs. K, learned of what transpired. As we settled into our seats for what should have been a math or social studies lesson, Mrs. K stood with her arms folded, motionless, at the front of the room. Sunshine mixed with the classroom’s dirty windows to cast shadows around us.
Then, she asked a question that still cuts: “Who did it?”
Everyone, our faces said.
Mrs. K walked over to the nearest desk, picked it up, and shoved it out an open window. For the rest of the day, there was only silence.
Brad Snyder
Brad Snyder’s essays have appeared or are forthcoming in HuffPost Personal, River Teeth’s Beautiful Things, Sweet Lit, The Gay & Lesbian Review, Thin Air Online, and elsewhere. He is pursuing his MFA in Creative Nonfiction Writing at Bay Path University. Brad lives in the San Francisco Bay Area with his husband, daughter, son, dogs, and cat. You can find more of his work at bradmsnyder.com
