Childish

Sometimes I act like a five year old. A five year old with self control issues. I make stupid decisions, say stupid comments and act childish. Childish is loosely defined as someone acting like an immature idiot. I strongly identify with this word for a number of reasons. In class, I crack jokes to cheer up the room, I imitate people’s voices if they say something funny and I always try to lighten the mood. Even though this trait might seem harmless it has come to stab me in the back.

This incident threw me into a harsh reality. It was like someone pulling up the blinds to reveal bright sunlight. The sunlight is the realization that the words I say and the way I say them can have an effect on the people around me. So as I looked back on the man selling his toys, I felt guilt. At that moment I did not realize that what I was saying could be heard by others or that other’s would be listening to my lighthearted laughter and comments.

I remember the time we took a trip to Italy. We were walking to the Colosseum, a large oval shaped building in the center of Rome, and the streets were crowded with tourists trying to get to the dozens of famous landmarks around the city. Along with the abundance of tourists, there were lots of locals trying to sell toys and knickknacks on the streets, anyone who has been to Rome can confirm. These knickknacks were repetitive, usually things like mini models of the Colosseum, fidget spinners, and stuffed animals. I remember walking down a particularly narrow street, my brother and I caught a glimpse of a toy we had never seen before. It was a squishy ball that, when chucked down at the sidewalk, made a squeaky noise. My brother and I stood there imitating the cat-like squeak of the toy. I was laughing so hard that I stepped back to brace myself from falling, but little did I know that the street seller behind me was angered by the fact that my brother and I found this man’s toy more amusing than his. As I stepped back my foot planted right onto his mini Mickey Mouse, interrupting the little dance it was performing. The man immediately leaped up from his crouched position, like he had just been stung by a bee. He yelled at me in thickly accented English, “Watch where you’re stepping, idiot American.” His hand reached out to grab my ankle. I did not know what to do but ran away from him. Once I was half a block away, I turned. He was scowling in my direction, blood rushing to his tanned skin. I stood there shocked and trembling. It was the first time I had been sworn at before. The words “you’re stepping” and “idiot American” jumping in my brain. My brother was standing next to me at that point and asking what was wrong, he obviously had not heard the man’s harsh words. I stood there close to crying, my hands sweating in the Italian heat. I did not tell my older brother or parents what the man had said to me, but his words really hurt.

At that moment I did not realize that what I was saying could be heard by others or that other’s would be listening to my lighthearted laughter and comments.

Now years after that day, I still have to take a second before I say a comment that to me might be humorous. Being childish is part of who I am and is not something that I will ever try to get rid of. Instead of getting rid of my “flaw” I work towards being more conscientious of the people around me and how different demographics might react to a certain comment or giggle.