I slip earbuds into my ears to find that she has chosen my music to be the backdrop to which she finds her words. She’s in her first ever creative writing class and to everyone’s amazement, words ease out of her like a knife passing through soft butter. My daughter is a writer and she’s a dang good one. She’s so good, in fact, that she recently used her gift to cut right through a girl who had tried to smear her name in the mud by suggesting that she had favored a few boys from the neighborhood.
My daughter, upon discovering the rumor, logged on to some account, tapped out a few lines of knowing accusation and a couple of lines of condemnation, and then, just to spice things up a bit, she added a few explicit social media acronyms to make sure she was clearly understood. The whole thread read, at worst, like an explicit excerpt from some gang bangers novella and at best, like a revamped version of West Side Story.
We were enlightened to the whole social media exchange when, on Friday, a neighbor came storming down to the house in the middle of Hurricane Hermine and banged on the front door. I answered the door with a plastic smile because in the south, hurricanes are better than snow storms. We stock up on bread and milk and then hunker down with Netflix in order to get our chill on, if you catch my drift. Nine months from now, the entire eastern part of the state will be birthing babies and naming them after Hermine.
But I digress.
I answered the door with my plastic smile and a Diet Coke and was hit with one statement: If they went to the same school, my kid would beat yours up.
I stood there wide-eyed and bushy-tailed and knew she was speaking truth. Her kid could kill all of my kids with one fist before my kids even knew they had been punched.
Because Friday night’s Facebook post struck a nerve with so many of you, I’m over at Grace Table sharing the rest of the story. Hope to see you there.