Thanks, Tom Stafford, I Needed That

It was 1986. Picture the poof-in-the-front hairdo with a poodle perm. Peg-rolled jeans. Bright yellow or hot pink T-shirts pulled off to the side, one tank top strap showing. Blue eye shadow. Oh yeah, LOTS of blue eye shadow. In 1986, I was 12 years old and in the 6th grade. I went to a 6th and 7th grade middle school in a suburb of Lansing. The point of each day was to get by without getting mortified.

I would have said the point of each day was to go by unnoticed, but that would have been untrue. Because, in sixth grade, I had a horrid crush. I was madly "in love" with Tom Stafford.

We had several classes together, but I was pretty sure he didn't know I existed. He had chocolate brown eyes that sparkled, the grin of a super star, and could make EVERYONE laugh. I had notes I'd written to friends, homemade posters in my locker, scribblings on my journal cover: I Love Tom, Tom+ Laura = Forever, Mrs. Tom Stafford. Not that I had ever even gotten up the nerve to SPEAK to Tom Stafford. I just knew, somehow, that one day we'd bump into each other, he'd look into my eyes, and that would be the beginning of a beautiful love story.

So, 1986. April 1st. Yup, you know where this story is headed. On this particular day, one of Tom's friends came up to me--TO ME-- in the hallway and said, "Hey, you know, Tom really likes you."

"Whatever," I said, my heart so loud I was sure he could hear it.

"No, seriously. He wants to know if you'll go with him." (For those of you out there who are NOT in your 40s, "go with" was the term for dating way back then. My dad would always say, "Where are you going?" So funny, Dad. So funny.)

I could barely breathe. THE Tom Stafford had finally noticed me? He wanted to go with me? I thought I might pass out. "Um, okay," was all I could muster.

Tom's friend smiled, nodded, said he'd go tell Tom. All that day, I got little notes and messages from Tom. He may have even smiled and waved at me during class, although now I think that if that HAD happened, I would have required CPR, so I probably would have remembered it.

Near the end of the school day, the same friend approached me at my locker. "So, Tom wants you to meet him outside after school."

My brain went fuzzy. What would Tom Stafford want? I had to ride the bus, I couldn't meet him after school! "Um..."

"He said he wants to kiss you. C'mon, you'll meet him won't you?"

I had never kissed anyone. Kiss TOM STAFFORD ? What if I did it wrong? My brain was in overdrive, but I was able to nod. I didn't care if I had to walk home. If Tom Stafford wanted to kiss me, I would BE THERE.

The last bell rang, My wobbly legs carried me to my locker. I got my jean jacket (Oh, yeah, I had style!) and walked out the back door of the school.

There was a huge crowd. The popular kids. Kids who never talked to me. Kids who maybe brushed against me and said, "Move!" if I was lucky. I should have known. I should have figured out what was going to happen. For the last 29 years I have thought that. I should have known.

Tom Stafford was standing in front of the crowd of people, collar up, hair perfect. He was beautiful. As I walked toward him, he grinned that grin. At ME. It was all true. I was going to have my first kiss, and it was going to be with the guy I'd "secretly" adored all year. I walked all the way up to him, completely unsuspecting.

"Oh my God," Tom yelled and laughed. "You're serious! April Fools! I can't believe you honestly thought I liked you! You're such a nerd!" The crowd laughed, yelled things I don't remember. Time stood completely still.

I don't remember much else about the story. I know I cried. Did I walk the miles home, sobbing, or did I make it on the bus? Did I tell my parents? Did people tease me about it for days, weeks, or years later? I honestly don't know. I only remember walking up to him, seeing his face, watching the smile begin... and then hearing those words.

As an adult, I have told that story countless times. I've told it to friends, as a "I can beat your horrid April Fool's Day joke" story (I always win). Many, many times, I've told it to kids, as a reminder that words can hurt so very much. That middle school and high schoolers can be so cruel, just for the pure enjoyment of the power in that moment. But that these times, these moments, will pass. You will be stronger for having endured them. Those moments can be a reminder to you of how YOU want to treat others. You don't want to be the bully in that story. I tell the story both so kids will be kinder, and so they realize, hey, one day it won't matter what Tom Stafford thinks of me. I'll be happily married to a wonderful man with three great kids, a gorgeous house, and a job I love. Middle school is temporary. This adult life, it's what really counts.

So, today, 2015, my nephew and nieces are at our dinner table, and my nephew doesn't want to tell us "The Billy Story." Apparently Billy has hurt Gary enough that Gary doesn't even want to relive it in words. "Nope, I'm good," he tells his sisters, when they try to get Gary to tell us. My heart aches for him. He's twelve. We'd all just been dancing to a song in the kitchen and the lyrics hit me. For Gary, it's goin' down for real. So, I tell them the April Fool's story. I want Gary to know I've been there, Uncle Eric's been there. It's tough, but, in the end, it will be good.

And here's where my story gets crazy. If you've been following the blog, you know that 2015 hasn't been our best year. This summer goes in the books as our worst as a family (except our fantastically awesome trip to NYC). We've struggled with Emma, I've been hurt by people through work, I've been hurt by family members, Emma's psychiatrist berated me in front of her, and one crazy Jersey Shore chick tried to kick my ass at a Billy Joel concert. Basically, my faith in the human race has kind of gone downhill this summer. My old love, depression, has been pulling on my heartstrings, trying to lure me into bed, pushing my head under the water so I can't breathe.

After I tell the story tonight, Eric says, "What's Tom's last name? I'm looking him up." Gary, Emma (my niece), Gracie and I all laugh, hoot, make jokes. Suddenly, Eric turns his phone around and there's that smile, facing me again. My heart plops into my stomach.

"Yup," I say incredulously, "that's totally him. That's his smile."

Eric has found Tom on a website through his employer, and there's a link to "email me." So, being the man he is (found my favorite teacher and had him write me a letter for Christmas; got me on the pitcher's mound of Comerica Park; made me a fabulous 'writing shack' with inspiring posters and memorabilia, ETC), Eric writes this strange, grown-up version of Tom Stafford an email:

Hi Tom,
My name is Eric. You don't know me but you know my wife - Laura Hendricks.
I wanted to send this email to you to thank you. You may not know this, but through your actions, you defined my wife as a person, a teacher, and a mother.
You may not remember this, but when you and Laura were in 6th grade, you made a decision. You made a decision to embarrass and publicly humiliate her. If you forgot, it happened on April 1st. You convinced her that you liked her, told her to meet you after school for a kiss, and then, when that time came, called her a nerd and laughed at her in front of your friends.
Now this may be something you don't even remember, but it is something she will never forget.
So why am I thanking you? Well, we have three kids and she teaches second grade. Whenever a student bullies another or when someone says or does something mean, she tells that story to illustrate that bullying hurts and people can be mean.
Your profile states that you have three kids. I hope they never experience the humiliation that you put my wife through. However if they do experience that pain, please know that it is a great life lesson about how some people feel it is necessary to bring another person down.

Congrats on your success.

 I know, crazy, right? That's my man. He sticks up for me. Said he couldn't stand to hear the story one more time without doing something about it. I love him more and more every day. But here's the thing--there's more.

Later, we're watching America's Got Talent and the phone rings. Eric runs into the study, answers, then says, "Laura Hall, get in here."

Me, "Oooh, 'get in here.' What'd I do now?"

Eric shuts the door. He's holding his hand over the mouthpiece of the phone. "It's Tom Stafford."

Me, "It is not. It is NOT! Shut up, you're making that UP!"

We go back and forth for about a minute, whereupon I finally take the phone from Eric. When I answer, it is, in fact, TOM STAFFORD. He called to apologize. Who does that?

So, the story has this new, awesome ending. An ending where Tom Stafford the grown-up husband, dad-of-three, nice guy calls to apologize for hurting me way back in 1986. I, of course, accept his apology, and am basically flabbergasted. We chit chat for a little bit, him apologizing profusely and thanking me for being so gracious, me shaking my head and saying, "We were little kids." It is incredible. The kids had said at dinner that the story sounded like a movie and I told them, yes, like a John Hughes movie. Now, like most John Hughes movie endings, the story's ending restores my faith in decent, kind, honorable people. Apologizing sincerely for something you did nearly 30 years ago? That takes guts.

To the real Mrs. Tom Stafford, you're a lucky woman.