The line flows forth. People pack in the rows between the bars, anxious to make it to the end as fast as they can. I lean from side to side, fidgety but at ease. Bored, I scan the area, taking in the "COSI: Center of Science and Industry" signs, the colorful exhibits, the fancy columns, and the crowd of fellow sixth graders, all with the same impatient expressions. But something strange catches my eye. A group of girls leisurely cuts through the line, relaxes on the bars, and proceeds. Can't they show some respectability, some humility, some morality, even some principles? My peace is shattered. These people are trying my patience. As a warning, I place my hand on the bar and block their path with my arm. One of the girls attempts to bowl right through my barrier, pushing me over the edge. I drive her into the crowd behind.

          Recovering, she simply gawks at me, yelling out, "What is wrong with you?!"

          Her exclamation rushes me back to my early childhood memories.

          I stare at the clock. 8:14. The five ticks into place, the bell rings and everyone rushes inside. We charge up the stairs, ready to start a new day in the first grade. Turning, the corner, I see the wooden door at the end of the white-bricked corridor awaiting our arrival, urging us onward towards our ultimate goal. But there's something else. A boy shoves past people and speeds ahead, eager to be the first to class. He can't do that! That's not fair! Other people deserve a chance. I sprint ahead of him and stretch my arm out. He slams his face into it, topples onto the linoleum, and rocks back and forth, yelping in blind pain. I stand over him in triumph. He got what he deserved. Suddenly, before I can protest, my teacher catches me, pulls me towards the principal's office, and I'm sent home for the day so I can think about my actions.

          I managed to snag a day off, but here I am, pencil and paper in hand, writing:

          I won't hurt other people anymore.

          Every letter fills the page and my mind, but I don't understand, and by the next day I can barely remember writing a thing.

          This kid is getting on my nerves. He keeps poking his head out from under the bridge, taunting me, teasing me, infuriating me, goading me on until I have no choice but to kick him in the face. I hear a knock as the rubber meets his head and he smashes into the woodchips, crying and shouting and trying to pound me back. But it's over. He got what he deserved. Taking from my experience in first grade, I abandon the scene before I'm caught.

          "Go!" We come together. A flurry of hands and feet bursts forth. Heads and arms knock against legs and metal. From the tension on the net, the springs creak in tune with every movement, the forest bordering the backyard echoing back. In the fray I realize that both kids are ganging up on me. Every time I get up, one pushes me back down, and while I'm on the ground the other jumps on me. That's not fair. They're preying on me just so they can win. I have to put a stop to this. A chance opens and I rise up and thrust the problem away. He stumbles back and falls headfirst off the trampoline. Silence. The grass rustles as he hits and he lays there, motionless. We stand up and stare over him.

          Opening his eyes and lifting his head, dazed, he smiles. "Everything went dark for a second." We all chuckled and laughed the fear away. "I think the impact knocked me out."

          "No way, dude."

          We laugh the serious moment away. My friends don't have a problem with it; I don't have a problem with it. Carrying on, we don't have a care in the world again...

          I know now why I shoved her. I shoved her because she was doing something wrong. I shoved her because I needed to stop her. I shoved her because I just wanted to make everybody happy. But I never considered that I might be the one that needs to be stopped.

          I force my mind back into the present. My cheeks flush and I'm hot and uncomfortable and filled with so much shame and guilt and I'm just staring back at her with my eyes and mouth wide open. I haven't responded yet and now I can't respond because it already took too long so I might as well pretend I never made the mistake of not responding in the first place. Turning around, I just look ahead with a frown, pretending to be angry, hiding the searing regret on the inside.

          While sitting in my living room, watching "Weeds," something profound enters my mind.

          Heylia James stands, hands on her hips, and scolds, "Are you gonna love someone the most when they're perfect, or are you gonna love 'em even more when they ain't?"

          Everything hits. I realize that my sudden and violent tendencies are wrong. Putting a little love into helping others, not pain or anger or impatience, nor a lack of help, is the key to truly solving problems.