Regina Ravioli

From the time I was in kindergarten through eighth grade I was tormented by a little red-haired, freckle faced Italian girl who I’ll call Regina Ravioli. Her real name was Regina Something-Very-Italian and I am sure even after all these decades if I used her real name here she would crawl up out of the bowels of our litigious society and sue my ass for speaking ill of her. So she will remain Regina Ravioli. I was always tall for my age and after a badly broken leg at age seven kept me wheelchair bound for three months I was fat too. She was petite and therefore cute and by default one of those people that can get away with anything.
Some of the things she got away with were the standard like taking my lunch money and throwing my sandwich in the garbage. In second grade at the end of the day she would regularly take my coat off the hook and throw it on the floor before taking hers. Once I even persuaded the teacher to observe her doing this. The teacher, a Catholic nun and therefore a thoroughly frustrated woman herself, observed this behavior, huffed a disapproving look at me for attempting to draw her into my mini-drama and turned and walked away, thus allowing Regina Ravioli to continue this coat abuse until spring finally came and resolved the problem for me.
Regina would befriend me from time to time always, of course, when she wanted something. I was a lonely and insecure child having little respite from ridicule which was heaped on aplenty at home by family and at school by both peers and teachers. (Again, Catholic nuns – frustrated, demeaned women who had few to release their frustrations on, save for the lonely, insecure children entrusted to their care.) Recently I was reminded of one memorable bus ride home in third grade when she spent the entire ride detailing for me how two boys were fighting over her for her affections. Now I was only in third grade but I do remember distinctly thinking this was absurd at the age of eight. (It was, remember, 1957 and kids weren’t nearly as sophisticated then as they are now. These days eight olds are getting chemical peels and boob jobs.) I also remember thinking, in the vernacular of my eight year old brain, what has rendered you so insecure that you need to tell me, of all people, about this alleged battle for your affections? I was able to think it then; I wasn’t able to understand it until years later when I came to learn that some people need to attempt to bolster their own egos and assuage themselves of guilt by appearing to bond with someone upon whom they look down on as inferior. Regina, it seemed, was feeling a little insecure and maybe even guilty herself.
Recently I was reminded of the pathos of Regina’s plight when a friend who’d slighted me reappeared one day requesting a favor. The slight had been disappointing but not relationship ending although it did offer valuable insight into the true character of the friend. To extend the favor would have been inconvenient for me but only for a short period of time and I was prone to give it some consideration. Until two thing happened. First, the friend attempted to manipulate me into extending the favor, which was clearly only for their benefit, by trying to convince me it had merit for me as well. And second, the friend felt compelled at this point to apologize for the past slight in a shamefully apparent attempt to gain the favor.
I’ve learned a lot since the days when Regina Ravioli threw my coat on the floor and regaled in telling me tales of pre-pubescent lust on the school bus.
I know it’s hard for some people to apologize for inconsiderate or even bad behavior. But the apology would have meant a great deal more had it not been attached to a self-serving request. In that instant I was back on the bus listening to Regina and thinking, WTF?
And speaking as someone who spent a great many years being maligned and manipulated by parents, teachers, priests, nuns, friends, husbands, lovers, etc., etc., etc. It is never a good idea to try to manipulate me. I might not catch on right away but I will catch on.
I haven’t seen or heard of Regina Ravioli in more than 40 years. But wherever she is I hope she is living a happy and fulfilled life. Maybe she ever married one of the third graders who vied so ardently for her affections. Do I want to see or hear from her again? No, not really. But the lesson she taught me lasted a lifetime. Thanks Regina.