There was a strange vibe in the air this morning. The dogs were not barking like maniacs, even in the presence of the big dogs down the street. In checking Facebook, Trump has apparently won the election, and the once-dreaded neighborhood bully of my childhood passed away. I wasn’t sure how to digest either of these developments, while waiting for the “third” hammer to fall. I’m not happy about the prospect of soon having another eighty-year-old in the White House, but I knew that sexist America was probably still not ready for a woman president. 

The death of another Elkhart classmate was more disturbing than who won the presidency, by far. He was a mean kid, who taunted me, tried to steal my “girlfriend,” and gave me the nickname, “Smiley.” I probably haven’t seen him in over sixty-years, but the mention of his name on Facebook always stirred up unpleasant memories of the smirk on his face. These days, I would never wish death on anyone, but I sometimes felt that way about him as a young child. We went to the same grade school, and summer camp so I always felt uncomfortable in his presence. He wasn’t a big guy, so there was never any physical intimidation, but his words sure hurt. He had also moved away from town for a number of years.

I clearly remember an incident at the local movie theatre where he and his buddies ganged up on me and began to tease me about my smile, “a shit-eating grin” they called it, wondering what I was hiding? They made grotesque faces, mocking my expressions. I sometimes wonder if maybe they thought I was making fun of them? It made me very self-conscious, because I tend to laugh and smile more when I’m ill at ease, and the awkward experience somehow managed to make me hate what should have been a beloved trademark smile. 

I should have embraced being called “Smiley,” but instead it made me angry. It was an early case of stolen identity, long before internet theft. Before I knew it, my real name was lost, and everyone called me by the nickname, unrecognizable if I used the name, “Mike.” They weren’t all making fun of me, in fact some thought “Smiley” actually was my last name. Even at reunions many years later, my name tag read “Smiley.” Mike no longer existed and identifying myself in a phone call was awkward unless I stooped to using the moniker. Instead, I just avoided using the phone. 

I eventually named our dog, “Smiley,” as a diversion, so the name lived on. Now, the bully who first called me by that name is gone, probably never realizing how much he changed my life. Just recently, someone asked if “Smiley” was coming to our 55th high school reunion? I couldn’t attend, but if I had, I would have played along and smiled like it never bothered me. However, there’s still a strange vibe when I recall the circumstances, with sincere wishes that the perpetrator rests in peace.