The Unbearable Unfairness of Winning
Unfairness first came to me in the unremarkable blocks of flats where I grew up in North West London. Not unfair because my siblings and I were poorer than the other kids. We had long ago accepted there was no money for the delightful crap other people enjoyed.
Mum, with her trademark West Indian pragmatism, would often caution us, “Don’t envy people their things. You don’t know what it really cost them.” Her words hinted at Faustus-like price tags that would only make sense to us in our adulting years.
Even at that young age, I was keenly aware of the world’s inequalities. The ‘Haves’ seemed to acquire more almost by osmosis, while people like my hardworking seamstress mum seemed to have less the harder they worked.
No. Unfair because of pesky Melanie, her mum, and a giant bag of marbles.
Tarmac-melting summer days were often creative, carefree and filled with forbidden adventures. Ignoring my mother’s warnings, I joyfully borrowed and rode dangerously unserviced bikes, sought out mischief and mayhem, and hung out with the misfits deemed “ruffians” by the upstanding citizens of our block. I had a great time being young and fearless.
In the midst of this chaos and camaraderie, one game stood out in our scuffed-shoes, scraped-knees community: marbles. Rain or shine, we would gather around a public drain, our grubby hands clutching these iridescent orbs like precious jewels. Each marble was valued with Stock Exchange-like precision for its unique pattern and size. A prized 50-pointer was called a ‘Gobstopper,’ a magnificent melange of green and white swirls, and which was rarely spotted in the prepubescent wild.
In our rag-tag marbles league, I’d been drawn to play against Melanie, a girl I pretended to like because of her wide circle of friends. Wide circle of dangerous friends. Not for these top-dogs erudite conversations about who did what to whom and why. Fisty-cuffs was their answer to any question.
Had I not been 10 years old, I would have seen Melanie’s entourage for what it was — a cry for acceptance. But being 10, I only saw Melanie’s smug affect and shop-bought clothes. She was the embodiment of everything I didn’t have. Incredibly, that list now also included a shiny Gobstopper Melanie had acquired in her new bag of marbles. She paraded that thing around like the winning belt in a heavyweight boxing match.
“Of all the dumb luck,” I thought under my breath. But then I brightened. Because despite all the things I didn’t have, I did have a great thing in my own arsenal — the ability to play a stunning game of marbles. And this skill was going to take down this frenemy — a term not yet coined in 70’s Britain.
Cheating at a game of marbles, while expected, was strictly outlawed. Our self-governing group enforced this and other rules in a hierarchy of light and hard touches. Two of the hard-touch rules were: (1) once a marble was wagered, it couldn’t be withdrawn in a fit of cold feet; and (2) players risked having their teeth reshuffled if caught dragging marbles with their finger instead of aiming and skimming them into the drain’s winning circle.
With this in mind, my eyes widened in theatrical outrage as Melanie dragged her marble across the drain instead of aiming and skimming it.
Melanie’s cherry-red face glared at me. “Did not! You big fat liar,” she spat. She stopped short of more slander when I held up the ‘Do-Over Card.’
The Do-Over Card had recently been shoe-horned into the rules by one of the top dogs. He had literally, and figuratively, lost his marbles in a fair game and fair win for his opponent. Nevertheless, he had insisted on this new rule on pain of fisty-cuffs. Melanie had already squandered her do-over on a measly 6-point round. Now, it was my turn to use this one-time trump card. We scraped our marbles back to our respective bases and prepared to start the final round again. A wager which would bag me her ginormous Gobstopper if I won.
Marble after marble was knocked into the drain’s central circle, and I felt my blood surge and curdle with each satisfying ‘kerplink.’ At one point, a frustrated Melanie tried to introduce a new rule — something about when is a drag not a drag — but was ignored as all eyes watched my finger tee up for what I hoped was the last shot of the game.
My breath caught somewhere between my stomach and throat as the marble hurtled, then strolled towards the centre ring. “Please,” I implored, “Please!” The tension hovered over us like an alien spaceship.
“GAME!” the ruffians roared in raucous delight at my marble’s winning ‘k-e-r-p-l-i-n-k!’
It was to be a short-lived victory.
That evening, Melanie and her mother appeared on our doorstep. From my covert position on the stairs, I could hear demands for justice, their voices a duet of righteous indignation and boredom. Still, I was hopeful since Mum had always taught us the importance of fairness and honesty. But my hopes melted away like snowflakes on a hot grill when I heard Mum’s murmurs of acquiescence.
“Mum!” I said, flying towards her. “I won those marbles fair and square. I’m not a cheat, I’m not!”
“She is, mum, she is!” Melanie said, her face a familiar beet-red, tugging at her mother’s crisp linen skirt.
I responded with hot tears and renewed pleas to my own mum, tugging at her faded apron. But it made no difference. Despite my passionate protests and eager explanations, I was made to give Melanie back her marbles. My marbles. An old-school, West Indian upbringing did not allow for do-overs. Once a parental decision had been made, it generally stayed made. It was over.
Mum closed the door on the debacle and returned to the trivial business of raising seven children and a husband. I retreated to my room and pummelled the foam out of a Melanie-shaped pillow.
Looking back as an adult, I’ve come to terms with my mother’s decision. Okay, the injustice still stings my inner child a little, but the grown woman has more empathy and a deeper understanding. My mum was a paid-up member of the Windrush generation, fighting for acceptance, equality and fair play. So mum wasn’t about to start a neighbourhood war about two little girls squabbling over a bag of marbles. Community acceptance was always a fragile thing.
And what about my outcomes that day had I not been made to give back those marbles? Potentially, a loss of carefree summers and illicit adventures. No doubt daily navigation between the Fors’ and Against’s within my peer group, to the point of drawn lines, betrayals and tarnished friendships. If mum didn’t want that for herself, she certainly would not have wanted it for her children.
And as profound as that is, I feel the lesson that day was more nuanced. In discussions since, mum was trying to teach us the importance of accepting only that which is freely given without rancour or malice. That true wealth, true victory isn’t in the accumulation of marbles or material possessions, but in keeping a sense of self and integrity.
I too have become more discerning about the battles I’m willing to go fisty-cuffs for. Moreover, I recognise my situation back then could have been much worse. I could have been parented like Melanie, who I now see was the poorer for it.
