Reflections on First Kisses and the Nature of Civility
Written on
Chapter 1: The Fear of the Unknown
In an effort to procrastinate, I've chosen to share a story from my past about one of my first kisses. It’s my way of demonstrating that, despite my current age and reluctance to wear swimsuits in public, I was once considered quite kissable. But let’s not kid ourselves—being kissable has little to do with age or swimsuit confidence.
As a child, I was a timid observer, particularly terrified of preschool. My teacher, who was genuinely kind, would don a costume resembling the Wicked Witch from Oz. With green paint covering her face, a plastic nose attached, and black robes flowing, her soft voice would transform into a loud, cackling tone that frightened me.
While the other children delighted in her antics—running joyfully as she sprayed whipped cream—I would hide beneath a table filled with used tissues and crayons.
There was a moment when I could no longer bear the chaos. Overwhelmed by fear, I slipped away from the festivities, navigating past the joy and out the door. I briefly considered freeing the llamas and sheep in the petting zoo but worried about their safety. My little legs carried me about a mile down the road before a passing mother found me and returned me to preschool.
Needless to say, my teacher was not pleased. “Why did you run away?” she inquired, to which I replied, “Because you’re a witch, and I was scared.”
She knelt before me, her makeup removed, and the worry of my absence evident in her expression. “You do realize that’s just me under the makeup, right?”
That was the crux of my fear: the realization that people might not always be who they seem. My sweet teacher could easily transform into a frightening witch, which shattered my young understanding of trust.
As adults, we understand this truth: people can have unexpected facets. Those we admire may reveal less admirable traits, simply because they are human. This reality often plays out in our relationships, communities, and even in the news.
After a week of being closely monitored at preschool, I had a visitor—Jason Lakis, my preschool crush. With his cute plaid pants and dark hair, he was a source of joy, along with his friend Eric, who had bright red hair.
One day, while playing in a mud puddle, we were caught by our mothers and promptly bathed. Amid the bubbles, Jason looked at me and said, “It’s okay that you were scared.” Instantly, I understood he referred to my fear of our teacher.
As we exchanged innocent kisses amidst laughter and bubbles, I realized that my embarrassing escapade had led to a sweet first kiss and a budding friendship.
Jason eventually ventured into a heavy metal phase in high school and continued his musical journey, but I’m certain he still embodies kindness. The Jason I knew had many layers, much like my teacher and everyone I hold dear. He taught me about compassion and understanding during that innocent moment.
Samuel Johnson once remarked, “When once the forms of civility are violated, there remains little hope of return to kindness or decency.”
While I find this view somewhat bleak, I believe civility—like empathy, respect, and kindness—can be nurtured, taught, and learned. My teacher made an effort to ensure I felt safe after my runaway incident, and I, in turn, learned to trust her.
Even those who have committed serious wrongs can rediscover their path to goodness. Similarly, communities that thrive on binary perspectives of right and wrong can evolve. Beneath everything lies nuance, as well as hope—hope for change, forgiveness, and something kinder, even when the world seems to lean toward hate and division.
I choose to believe in this hope; perhaps you do too?