In Defense of Slander: A Tale of the Berlin Wall

I didn’t really start out with a plan to make everyone hate her, even in hindsight I figure it was mostly her fault. It started with an innocent game between two girls, one six and one eight.

Even as young girls, we possessed a certain interest in global affairs and, consequently, we incorporated important political events into our role-playing games. I believe the official name of the game that broke our partnership was “Berlin Wall.” As you can imagine, “Berlin Wall” was pretty self-explanatory: sisters were painfully separated by a concrete barrier and the only form of communication was cryptic handwritten-notes carefully tossed to the sister anxiously waiting on the other side. The trick was to toss the notes cautiously or raise the suspicion of the non-existent guards warmly bundled in the watchtowers above. The game was all in the toss and tightly constructed codewords. It was a dangerous game, but in 1989, it was topical and politically-informed—it was a reflection of the times. In the wake of the wall’s fall, we wanted to honor those who had endured isolation and injustice. Or something.

On whichever day it was (let’s say a Friday) we discussed where we had left our last session of “Berlin Wall” and retrieved our shoeboxes of contraband notes. We then re-erected the couch cushion wall down the center of Allison C.’s* basement family room. The game was on.

We spent the next few “days” tossing notes across the wall. They were written in crayon on scraps of Allison C.’s father’s work papers. The paper was the old type with alternating stripes of green and white and had perforated edges with holes for the printer. We wrote things like “the shoes don’t fit. Take care.” If the guards were to catch us, they wouldn’t know plans for our escape to finally reunite with our beloved sister. The tossing of notes seemed to go on forever and I knew it was time to take matters into my own hands.

I waited for the perfect moment when the guards were distracted and I slowly scaled the wall of brown and orange flowered couch cushions. I held my breath…what if they saw me? What would they do? What if I never saw my sister again? However, I was brave and the non-existent guards couldn’t keep me from her. I closed my eyes and jumped down to the other side. I was there! I had made it unscathed—or so I thought. I looked up to see Allison C. atop the wall with her pointed hand in the shape of a gun. With malice, she stated, “NO ONE crosses the wall.” Then she shot.

How could it be that my sister had morphed into a soldier in a blink of an eye. After all of the notes and tossing, and tears and loneliness, this was how it would end? Shot on the ground next to the wall on my sister’s side. It couldn’t be.

“You can’t change roles in the middle of the game!” I yelled, “You are my sister not a guard! I am totally safe.” Allison C. looked down at me with her hazel eyes, “That wasn’t a rule. Plus, I can do what I want, I am older than you.” There it was, she had pulled the age-card. I dumped my shoebox of cryptic green and white folded notes on the carpet. “I am out of here!” I shouted and stomped up the stairs, out the front door, and down the sidewalk to my house.

I stewed about her chameleon character change, she was on my team and she had shot without remorse. She would rather play a guard than my sister? It was my first painful taste of betrayal. The only logical thing I could think of was to make the other neighborhood girls hate her.

The key element to Allison C.’s downfall was that she was a redhead. A cute brunette will beat out a redhead any day of the week. Also, she lived further south than any of the important girls on our street—if she wanted access to the group, she would have to pass my house to get to them. Although she was older, I most certainly would have, and could have, stopped her.

I went to work almost immediately. I told the other girls all the bad things she said about them. I told them how she made fun of Rachel P. (sister of Allison P.) when she crashed on her bike and knocked her front teeth out. I told Jane H. and Kim H. that she had called their mom trashy because she wore a bikini in her front yard. I told Brittney T. and Nicole T. that Allison C. thought their religion was “dumb.” For good measure, I told the Carlson brothers that she had a crush on all three of them—“she is just like that,” I told them, “She can never make up her mind.”

She could have said all this--but she didn't. And that didn't matter to me in the slightest.

I systematically destroyed her one falsehood at a time. And she never recovered, even up until the time she moved several years later. No one was sad to see her go, especially me. I would like to say I feel bad about this now; however, I try to live a life without regrets. Plus, everyone knows you should never change teams in the middle of the game.

*Note: The names have been changed to protect the identities of the individuals involved; however, it should be noted that “Allison C.” is not the same as “Allison P.” Allison P. and I never came to blows over “Berlin Wall.” However, she did disown me as a friend after I spread a rumor that her parents were divorcing. Allison P. called me a liar and said she hoped I died. In my defense, I wasn’t lying: I had picked up a receiver and silently listened to our mothers talking on the phone. I had distinctly heard Allison P.’s mother say she was leaving her husband and she did a few months later—perhaps, Allison P. simply didn’t want to learn about her family’s fracture from the other kids in the neighborhood.

Here it is...

You asked for it, so here it is. If this experiment fails, I will not blame myself. I will blame you—and you know who you are.

I haven’t planned for this; I don’t plan for anything. Actually plans frighten me. I don’t plan the awkward moments, mishaps, dangers, and general ridiculousness that I seem to encounter everyday. I have an uncanny ability to make myself look like a fool.

The best lesson I have ever learned is to never take myself too seriously. Most of my experiences are born from my own clumsiness, embarrassment, and inability to shut my mouth. I embrace the cynical and the sarcastic and it is not from brevity of wit. I find most things funny, even some of the worst things. I suppose I would rather laugh than cry. I am ridiculous and, although you may not know it, so are you. And isn’t that the fun of it all?

I ask myself the big questions and I can hold my own during an intellectual battle. However, I find big questions profoundly uninteresting. I find people interesting. That doesn’t mean I like them, I often don’t. Reciprocally, they often don’t like me. I also like words, handwriting, and anything faux bois. Those things are also interesting.
I live an ordinary but great life. I hope to continue with the ridiculousness and laugh the whole damn time. For some reason, Joe has agreed to come along with me. I love him for that.
I am not sure what this nonsense will be about. Perhaps just that—nonsense.