I often wonder: if social media had existed when I was growing up, how different would things have been? Probably a lot… and not necessarily for the better.
In a tiny place called Les Mousses, families were separated by the Méreille stream. People spoke of “the folks on the other side,” as if that narrow ribbon of water marked a real border—almost another country. Funny how something so small could feel so big.
On that “other side” lived a little girl with Down syndrome, about my age. Was she always there or just visiting? I can’t quite remember. But one summer day stayed with me.
Our mothers were walking together, chatting, while we trailed along beside them. The dirt path was lined with freshly cut grass—food for rabbits and chickens. There were no stores nearby. If you wanted to eat, you made do with what you had.
Except for the nettles.
They grew thick and tall along the path—some towering over three feet high. Not the small ones you barely notice, but the big, stinging kind. As kids, we knew the difference very well.
What happened between us? That part is fuzzy. All I know is that, in an instant, I ended up flat on my back in a particularly vicious patch of nettles. It was summer—no long pants—so the lesson was… intense.
My legs and backside turned bright red, like a rooster’s comb. Blisters popped up everywhere. I screamed. She screamed.
Our mothers rushed over, pulled us apart, and rescued me from my prickly disaster.
People say nettles are good for rheumatism. I’m willing to believe it—I’m nearly 80 now and still don’t suffer from it. Maybe some treatments start early.
But what stayed with me most wasn’t the pain.
It was the way both mothers reacted.
No speeches. No explanations. Just quiet care. In that moment, I understood something simple: yes, there was a difference—but it didn’t cancel out kindness.
Back then, differences like that were rarely discussed. They were tucked away, almost hidden, as if speaking of them would make things worse.
Today, it would be completely different.
With social media, a moment like that wouldn’t stay on a quiet country path—it would go everywhere. Kids have phones earlier and earlier. If others had been there, the scene would likely have been filmed and shared within seconds. And empathy? That might not have made the cut.
Thankfully, times have changed in other ways. Science has brought understanding, and society is making room—real room—for people with disabilities. It’s far from perfect, but it’s moving forward.
Not every child received that kind of understanding.
There was another boy in the village. Overprotected, not very active, he still had the roundness of a toddler while the rest of us were growing lanky. On the walk home from school, kids avoided him. This time, difference made people laugh.
I still wonder what became of him.
And difference doesn’t stop at disability.
An accent. “Wrong” clothes. Skin color. Religion—or none at all. That’s all it takes to become “the other,” the one people point at.
I know, because it happened to me.
A year before I started middle school, it had already happened to C. He came from Les Mousses too. Same small school. Same public education. Meanwhile, most of the other kids went to private schools and boarding schools in Remiremont.
My first year wasn’t easy.
Some students thought it was funny to mock me. They would puncture the paint tubes I kept in my desk, one by one. The teachers looked away.
And I said nothing at home.
I had hoped my mother would attend the parent-teacher meetings. Her answer was short:
“They’re all shopkeepers or tradespeople.”
In other words: not our world.
I remember thinking, exactly—that’s where my difference lies.
But I stayed quiet.
She never once spoke to a teacher. Not even to fill out a form. She saw my distress—but that was it.
I went from being near the top of my class to ranking dead last.
The result? I had to repeat the year—just like C. And later, I realized something else: I had lost my scholarship.
The Ending Was Already Written
The last project we built together would be our boldest—and the one that brought everyone in.
Jean came up with the idea: a hidden shack near a stream, tucked under a stand of trees. A place to escape. A place to be free. Youth centers didn’t exist for us—so we created our own.
A few wooden planks for walls. Sheets of metal for a roof. Just like that, we had something we proudly called “waterproof.” That alone felt like luxury.
Sure, the wind slipped through the cracks—but we didn’t care.
Picture ChaptGPT
Inside, we lined the walls with dried ferns, held in place with old mattress fabric, nailed up with enthusiasm. It wasn’t pretty, but it was ours.
One family donated a small cast-iron wood stove. The rest—table, chairs, makeshift beds, dishes—came from whatever we could find or what parents were willing to give.
A perfect mix of creativity and community.
And the electricity?
We didn’t have batteries. But we had Jean.
Part tinkerer, part magician, he figured out how to make power from water. A bicycle wheel set in the stream became a makeshift turbine, turning a dynamo.
And just like that—we had light.
Not enough to light a palace, but more than enough for our little shack. It lit up our evenings… and our imaginations.
I watched it all with wide, amazed eyes.
Jean, Alain, and the others lived moments there that still belong to them—and probably make them smile today.
Of course, not everything was perfect.
Soon enough, unwanted guests arrived: fleas. And they didn’t need any engineering to move in.
Eventually, the family left this wild playground behind and moved into the house my father had built, in Le Val-d’Ajol—a town of about 6,000 people. A very different world.
From a handmade kingdom to a more structured life… at least on the surface.
What colors will shape the rest of our lives?
T
o be continued next week.
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