The Country School is an independent, coeducational, Pre-K through 8 school founded in 1934.

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Christmas

By: Neil Mufson
Brad Bell is one of those kids I still remember vividly from my elementary school years, perhaps because taking him in involved a number of senses. Small and rail thin, Brad had a permanently raspy voice. He always seemed to squint at the world, and he had a uniquely sour smell. He was poorly groomed and his clothes were worn. If a teacher wasn’t looking, he would hit you hard in the arm as he walked past.
Brad’s differences didn’t end there. He lived tucked next to the new interstate that transformed our small town into a suburb of Boston. When the highway’s new cloverleaf entrance was excavated, Brad's house became cut off from any others, and his yard became increasingly overgrown before they moved.
 
Besides for giving us arm slugs, Brad rarely mixed with the rest of us. He wasn’t a part of our recess games, and I can’t remember even seeing him outside at school. Yet, I often saw him all over town riding a barebones bike with a scraggly hound beside him. We kids knew that Brad’s dad had died when he was little and that his family was “poor,” something pretty much unheard of amongst the student body at Henry B. Sanborn School.
 
During those years one of the ways my parents kept my sense of privilege in check was by keeping our holiday gifts modest. My sister and I usually got one special toy and then it was all practicalities: new boots, socks, and, to our groans, even underwear. We also were expected to do regular purges of outgrown clothes and toys, and several times a year my father and I would load up our station wagon with our former treasures and head to the “sharing shack” at the town dump. There you could leave items in decent shape that you no longer wanted, and you could take items you thought you could use. It was there that I had found two pairs of old suede boxing gloves that, besides for missing laces and dampness, were virtually pristine. The day I triumphantly brought the gloves home, my father started teaching me to box. I imagined boxing might prove useful if Brad Bell ever acted up.
 
One cold Saturday morning weeks after I had discovered the gloves, my father and I brought some large bags of used clothing to the sharing shack. Mr. Miller, our school’s custodian, had a weekend job overseeing and sorting the items brought in to share.  Those he deemed worthy would be set out on some shelves inside the shack; others were put into huge burlap sacks. Before our dump run that day, I remember weighing if I should surrender a favorite flannel shirt that had a rip in one elbow. “I’ll sew it up and then toss it in,” said my mother. “The sleeves are getting too short for you anyway. Someone else will treasure it, like you have. Just like you’ve loved those boxing gloves.” I reluctantly surrendered my shirt. 
 
Shortly after our Christmas break I noticed Brad Bell wearing a shirt just like the one I had given away. I remember at first being confused but then saw the telltale repair. I wondered if Brad had found it himself in the sharing shed. As we waited in line at the water fountain, I thoughtlessly asked him if he liked my shirt, the one he was wearing. He immediately punched me in the arm, and as I quickly contemplated a retaliatory boxing move, he rasped, “Couldn’t be yours. Mom gave it to me for Christmas.” “But see there, my mom sewed that up.” He hit me again, even harder. “Fell off my bike Christmas Day and tore it up, so Mom went and sewed it.” As I was about to hit him in the arm — at least — Miss Finn, our teacher, appeared and stood beside us, sensing but silencing our confrontation. 
 
At dinner that night I shared my confusion. As I was running through the options, my father said, “Might be your shirt. Might not. You did the right thing in not hitting Brad back. But let him have his dignity. Imagine if that were your Christmas gift.”
 
I think of Brad Bell and that shirt most years at Christmas time. I think of my mother sewing the ripped sleeve and of my father telling me to put myself in Brad’s shoes. I think of Brad’s scrawny dog, his ramshackle house, and his rickety bike. I think of his characteristic squint and his preemptive arm punches. I’m now grateful for the lessons he unwittingly taught me. 
 
I hope that your holidays are full of hope and light and the making of long-lasting memories.
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