by Dori Ben-David
Age six at the time

Betsy was small and frail. She barely had eyelashes. Her hair was thin and wispy and in my memory, it was silvery gray although I don’t know if it was really like this. We were six years old, Betsy and I and most of our first grade class. Betsy had a weak voice, high pitched and a little whiny. She also had some kind of skin disease. Maybe it was just eczema. Maybe something more serious. Her skin was very dry and easily irritated. White, flaking pieces dotted her body -– her arms, her legs, her face. Her hands were dry and wrinkly. She looked like a little old lady in a child’s body. She wasn’t supposed to wash with soap or even with water too often.

Our torment of her was relentless.

A few times a day, the class would line up in the hallway outside the restroom. Six at a time, we would go in, use the restroom and wash our hands. It was usually one of these bathroom breaks that triggered the torment –- we called her gross, said she was dirty, how nasty it was that she didn’t wash her hands with soap and water. She would protest and plead in her small, thin voice: “But I’m not supposed to use soap!”

I don’t actually remember if I ever said anything myself. My only memory is of standing in the group, a circle of us surrounding Betsy, tormenting. And of her protesting, defending.

Every afternoon, we were released for recess. Together the class walked across the huge grassy lawn towards the playground. Once we crossed an invisible threshold, we all took off running. This day I lingered behind and was one of the last to reach the playground. As I darted up one of the ladders, my teacher called my name — and immediately I was filled with dread. I knew what was coming: “Today you play with Betsy.” Great, just great. I slowly turned my body around and trudged disappointedly towards Betsy.

This is the third and last memory I have of Betsy. My Dad taught at my school so I stayed after every day, waiting for him to take me home. I would hang around in the front lobby, moving from couch to couch and chatting with Paula, the receptionist who always had a piece of gum for me. I was hanging around one afternoon when I heard Betsy’s high voice. It had a different tone than I was used to hearing from her. She sounded happy. I heard her excitedly yell, “Daddy!” and I saw from down the hall, a man coming towards her with his arms spread wide. Her face in a huge smile, she ran to him and jumped into his arms. He hugged her and spun around. I was bewildered. This guy clearly loved Betsy. Betsy, with the weird skin who didn’t use soap when she washed her hands.

After first grade, Betsy went to a different school and I didn’t think about her for maybe 20 years. Then she popped back into my mind one day. I’m not sure what made me think of Betsy -– Maybe it was having children of my own and thinking about their own vulnerability. Now I think about Betsy all the time. I hope she’s happy.

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