The Playground Swing

“I have been working on this piece for years.”

That’s what I told myself. When I went back to look for earlier drafts that I was sure I had started, I discovered that there were none. I never wrote anything down – I only thought about sharing this story. For years. Until now.

“Do you have any real ghost stories?” is a fun question that pops up occasionally in social situations. My go-to response is the story of The Playground Swing – an unexplained occurrence from when I was in the 6th grade. Whether or not it is an actual ghost story, the memory has stayed with me for 44 years. 

Just as the clear, cool weather of an early September day can evoke memories of 9/11, the story of The Playground Swing always comes back to me on crisp October mornings. It sneaks in sideways while I’m going through my morning routine, or while I’m commuting. It evaporates before I ever sit down and type it out. There’s not a whole lot to the story, really. It’s that unexplained simplicity that makes it a bit anticlimactic in the telling.

It was the fall of 1980 and I was in 6th grade at Bowling Green Elementary school in East Meadow, New York. We had moved into my grandmother’s house the year before, after a year of unrest following my parents’ divorce. I was happy to be living there, in the cozy house my mother grew up in. I looked forward to going to the school that my parents, aunts, and uncles had all attended.

Once upon a time, I had been a popular kid, but this was our second move in under two years. I remember hearing that it was a bad age to be uprooted and have to make new friends. Obviously many kids maneuver their way through it successfully. I didn’t.

5th grade had been bad, but I did have a couple of new friends to help me get through it. When we got into 6th grade, they were in a different classroom on the other side of the school. In my class, there were no allies. It felt like they were all against me. Looking back now, I would have to say that, among those in my class, I was met with 50% aggression and 50% apathy.

I was a chubby kid in need of a shower and a haircut, with big eyes and thick lashes that caused me to be regularly mistaken for a girl. My class picture says it all: This is a photo of an 11-year-old who was misgendered by the photographer moments before he snapped the picture. When I rolled my eyes and said, “I’m a boy,” he sputtered “Oh, uh… I was talking to that girl over there.” Now smile! *Click*.

For years, my memory was this: One day, my entire class gathered after school to confront me as I walked through the playground towards home. I’m sure it wasn’t ALL of them but when faced with an angry mob of your peers gathering around you, well… I didn’t stop to take attendance. It was a lot of them.

What was their plan? To beat me up? What would that accomplish? I don’t think they actually knew either, and in that disorganization I was able to run away.  My best defense was that I could always run fast.

My mother called the school to complain and I was allowed to stay home the next day. The vice-principal went and spoke to the class, asking why they were picking on me. The response landed me in his office for a lecture: I had a bad mouth. I cursed at everyone. This is what he was told. I was the problem. No mention of the taunts and name calling that were the catalysts for my colorful language.

Fuck them, I thought.

My teacher was Mr. Dillon, a soft-spoken beanpole of a man who had been teaching there since my parents attended in the 1950’s. He kept his Vantage cigarettes in the breast pocket of his shirt, and another teacher would stop in to watch the class while he went out for smoke breaks. He had lost his wife a few years before and seemed sad, defeated, and waiting to retire.

In the Bowling Green student handbook that nobody reads, I found that if I brought a note from my mother, I could go home for lunch. I don’t know of anyone else who did this or wanted to. Teachers and staff would look at me funny when I presented my note and told them I was heading out. I would run home to avoid the lunchtime awkwardness of where to sit, as well as any potential playground altercations.

We went on a field trip that year to the top of the World Trade Center, which I loved. Two things stick out about that trip: Standing up against the glass and looking down. It was dizzying. I also remember that when it was time for lunch, I sat with the teachers. They seemed puzzled.

Back to The Playground Swing. Our classroom overlooked the playground and on this one sunny and clear October morning, all of us began to notice this one swing moving back and forth, high and steady like a metronome. It was empty. There was no wind and all of the other swings were completely still. I don’t know how long this went on – it seemed like an hour. 

Mr. Dillon tried to redirect our focus back inside the classroom. His voice had a nervous quiver to it that I had never heard before. He could see the swing too, and there was no visible explanation. There were no nearby structures for someone to hide in and pull a string to create this effect. It was a freestanding swing set in the middle of a flat asphalt playground. 

By the time the lunch bell rang, the swinging had stopped. We all headed out into the hall, where the kids from the classroom next to ours were similarly perplexed – they had seen it too. There was talk of it being the ghost of some kid who died the year before I moved there, but I don’t remember the name, and surely I would have heard about this before.

Nobody had an explanation, and it never happened again. And that’s the story of The Playground Swing.

The school year went on. The bullying continued, although somehow I managed to avoid another angry mob scenario. One of my main tormentors was this butch brute of a gal who treated me as her physical and verbal punching bag. My mother once again called the school to request that she stop assaulting me, which resulted in her getting called to the vice-principal’s office. We were in music class when she returned. As she walked past where I was sitting, she grabbed the top of the back of my chair and slammed it towards the floor. I fell backwards, landing flat on my back with a loud crack. Everyone gasped. And nobody did a thing.

I got back into my chair, buried my head in my arms and sobbed uncontrollably. The feeling of hopelessness was overwhelming, with one thought repeating in my head: “This will never end. This will never end. This will never end.”

Our last day of school was a needless half day with nothing to do. Mr. Dillon, who could barely maintain control of his class on the best of days, was losing the battle. Kids were killing time by throwing things, yelling and walking around, waiting for dismissal. I’d had enough of this scene and decided to make a move.

While Mr. Dillon was trying to catch a kid who had wandered down the hallway, I went to his desk, opened the drawer, found my report card, and walked out the door. Once outside the school, I heard someone yell out the window “He’s coming after you!” So I ran. I ran through the playground – past those motionless swings. I ran away from that school as fast as I could, faster than ever before. I would continue running away from that place for years.

I would like to say that I didn’t look back, but I did. Every once in a while I would think about what I could have done to navigate those waters more successfully. While I can go back and forth with ideas about how I could have improved my social game, there is one thing from that year that had no explanation or variables: What was up with that swing? 

If it was a ghost revisiting the playground to have one last turn on a swing, that’s less frightening than the abuse I suffered at the hands of my classmates.

I just wish I had more stories about benevolent spirits and less about wretched children.

See also:
Whatever Happened To The Kid Who Boiled John Crouse’s Head?
Your Halloween 60’s Girl Group Playlist
The Tin Man & The Lion: Unanswered Prayers
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My Mother, The Superhero
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You Picked The Wrong Fat Guy
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