Bryan's Choice

I remember the advice Dad gave to me when I was six-years-old and was confronted by my closest friends, Scott and Winston, who demanded to know which of them was my "best friend" . . .

Our family had recently moved into the Blue House at the head of the cul-de-sac across from Norman Rockwell Elementary School. The neighborhood was filled with boys, but the two that I saw the most of were Scott and Winston.

One day, while playing "guns" [sticks] out in the front yards, Winston asked me to be on his team to fight against Scott. Scott thought that "2-against-him" was unfair so he claimed me too. They both turned to me. I knew what was happening. Time slowed down. My stick transformed into a gavel; I had become a justice in the tribunal of friendship.

"Which one of us is your best friend, Bryan?" Winston arrogantly ventured. In our six-year-old minds, we all understood this question to be synonymous to asking me which team I'd rather join.

"You're both my best friends." I looked down at my feet.

"No fair!" they both chimed in. "You have to pick just one of us."

"Why?" I was stalling for time now.

"Because you have to," They insisted.

I couldn't take the pressure any longer. I dropped my stick on the lawn and ran inside my house.

Fortunately, it was a Saturday and my dad was home from work. I knocked on his Study door and was invited in. I did my best to explain to him my predicament between involuntary gasps and wheezes. (Meanwhile in the yard, Scott and Winston seemed to have forgotten all about me and had re-hid themselves in the bushes to continue their make-believe warmongering.)

What my dad told me next, I'll never forget:

"Bryan, it is possible to have more than one best friend. If someone demands a level of friendship that you are uncomfortable with, then they're not really your friend."

It never occurred to me that my friends' definitions of friendship could be fallible. When I was pressed for an answer, I shut down and felt confused as to why someone who claimed to be my friend would put me in that kind of compromising situation.

Reassured with this new bit of wisdom, I went out in search of my friends. (It took me a while to coax them from their hiding spots.) Reunited, I confidently informed them that I didn't have a [singular] best friend. In my best Kindergarten lingo, I taught them that my friendship with each of them was mutually exclusive. It was like the equal, but different, love that a parent can feel toward each of their children.

Winston didn't seem to follow the analogy being an only child, but he seemed satisfied in seeing how strongly I felt about what I was teaching. We didn't have any more problems after that.

That tender experience prepared me to preempt confrontations throughout my pre-teen and teenage years. From then on, I had the fundamental confidence necessary to make the difficult peer-pressure decisions as they came. I don't know why they did, but my peers seemed to unquestionably respect my values all throughout our school years. No one ever prodded me to swear, smoke, drink, do drugs, fornicate or do anything else that deep down, they knew was wrong; they never even brought it up in front of me. (Maybe that's the same reason I have never been TP-ing or attended a Kegger.)

(This post is dedicated to my sister Stef in Jerusalem. It's not you that has commitment issues, Puff; it's them.)