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The tone of the teen hideout was pretty much hateful.
We hate the neighbors, the block, the oldies, the young ones.
We hate coffee, sugar, cleaning, being awake, being told what to do.
It was a rebellion of sorts.
If we had weapons, it might have been a blood bath.

So much anger and rage, 
feeding off each other’s fears and disappointments.
I hate all of the McWhirters, I hate the White’s, I hate the Smiths.
I was keeping my mouth shut, because I did not if I was one of the whites or not.
I am actually pink with distorted brown polka dots, but you never know.
In self preservation, I joined them, throwing out some hates of my own.
The more hate we spewed, the more riled up we became.
I was afraid the guns and bullets were going to come out.

Grandpa knocked on the door and asked “You okay in there?”
Sheila yelled yes. The rest of us laughed. He’s old. Senile probably.
Two minutes later Grandma breezed in without knocking. 
She sat down and began telling us stories about our parents.
They were hilarious; the mood of the room changed.
We accepted her offerings – warm pancakes, hot butter, syrup.
Love conquered us.  There were no more words of hate. 

One woman entering a room transformed fear and rage to love. 
I have never forgotten the value of this lesson.

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