Respect

After Nancie called me that night, slurring, spitting, and garbling her words, it made me think. She was a grown woman calling her thirteen year old godson, drunk or high on drugs, in the middle of the night, attempting some sort of conversation as if nothing was out of the ordinary, as if she was just calling up to see how I was doing. Completely normal. That, obviously, didn't sit well.

But something else began to bother me. Wasn't I supposed to show respect to my elders? I had this feeling, this subtle yet pervasive feeling sitting in my gut, like after eating too many chicken nuggets. I knew what she did wasn't right, so did Nancie, if she even remembered, so would anyone. Was there something wrong with me that I wouldn't look at my godmother the same way again? I'm not so sure it was even a choice, I don't think I could have the same amount of respect for her. Drugs were wrong, my parents always told me, I learned about it from school and from Grandma and Pop Pop.

"Stay away from drugs, Jonny," Pop Pop would say. "They'll never get you anywhere."

"You got to be carful, make sure," Grandma would always tell me. "Don't listen if people try and give you some."

I always agreed.

Nancie, for the most part, was the only adult that acted stupid in front of me. She was never like the other adults I knew: responsible, well-kept, modest, even tempered, never swearing, and the 'going to bed early to get up for work the next day' type. At that point some line had been crossed, some wall broken and pulled down, revealing her to me in the light of reality. I learned then that respect was not a choice. No matter how hard I might try to like someone, or act nicely and civil around the person, true, deep-down respect can never be given, only earned. It didn't take an adult to figure that out.