Matt and the Block

It’s funny what the mind holds onto, how small moments from childhood can echo across the years. I was just thinking about a boy named Matt from my second-grade class, a kid who, in my young eyes, embodied everything I couldn’t stand. He was a troublemaker, always playing around during lessons, teasing me and the other kids mercilessly. He had a foul mouth, too—one of those kids who made you nervous just being near him. 

One day, our class was working with wood blocks, learning how to sand them down, seated at rectangular tables of four. Matt, naturally, was seated next to me. He started throwing the wood blocks into the air, something that wasn’t surprising but was annoying just the same. These blocks were a little bigger than a chalkboard eraser, and it wasn’t long before one of them found its target—me. I felt the block land on the top of my head and bounce off. It didn’t really hurt, but the fact that it happened stuck with me.

I glanced at Matt. I was irritated, sure, but that was just Matt being Matt—annoying but not dangerous. A few seconds later, though, Patti, a girl at our table, began to scream, “Matt hit Richard on the head!” Her voice cut through the classroom, grabbing everyone’s attention. 

It’s funny how things escalate. The block hadn’t hurt me much, but when Patti started making a scene, it was like the entire situation shifted. All of a sudden, I wasn’t just a kid hit by a block—I was the victim of Matt, the bully. Her yelling made me feel like I *should* be upset, that I *should* feel hurt. Before I knew it, I was crying. The teacher rushed over, grabbed Matt by the arm, and marched him straight to the principal’s office. He was in trouble now, all because of me.

Looking back, I realize how much more complicated the situation was than I understood at the time. I didn’t have any real anger towards Matt. Yes, he was annoying, but I never felt he meant any real harm. And yet, once Patti called attention to the incident, it was like the whole class had decided what the narrative was going to be—Matt, the bad kid, had hurt me. That was the story, and I went along with it.

In hindsight, I wish I had been more patient, more understanding. Matt wasn’t just a class clown or a bully. There were signs, even then, that something wasn’t right in his life. He wore the same clothes day after day, and there was a roughness to him that suggested things at home were far from perfect. At the time, though, I was more scared of him than sympathetic. It would’ve taken a lot more courage than I had to reach out to him, to see beyond his tough exterior.

A year later, Matt came back to school with his face horribly scarred from a fireworks accident. It was devastating to see. He became even more of an outcast after that, and though I felt bad for him, I still never made the effort to be his friend. I kept my distance, just like everyone else. 

But what stands out most to me about that day in second grade isn’t the block hitting my head or even Matt being sent to the principal's office. It’s the way Patti’s screaming made my heart race, how her reaction made me feel like I *should* be hurt and upset. In that moment, I wasn’t just reacting to Matt’s actions—I was responding to the expectation of the group, to the story Patti was telling. It reminds me, now, of how easily mobs can get out of control. It only takes one voice to stir things up, to push everyone else into acting in a way they might not have otherwise. In that small second-grade classroom, Patti’s yelling was that voice, and I followed along, not out of my own anger or pain, but because it felt like that’s what I was supposed to do.

Now, with years of reflection, I wish I had reacted differently, both in that moment and in the years that followed. Matt didn’t need more people pushing him away—he needed a friend. But, like so many others, I just didn’t see it at the time.