The Lore of Margo

Why my kindergarten nemesis and her villainous catchphrase still haunt me to this day.

“Everybody makes mistakes!” If this were a sitcom, this would be where the studio audience roared with laughter. “That rascal!” they’d say. The catchphrase was always paired with her signature “Who, me?” pose: elevate the eyebrows to communicate shared shock, shrug up the shoulders and hide the neck to seem oh-so-widdle and innocent, and turn the palms up to the heavens—because surely, it was an act of God, not Margo. She would hold perfectly still in this pathetic posture to ensure the faux sincerity landed on its intended target, which was not a studio audience but rather her mother, seated beside her at the art table.

Ever her biggest fan, Margo’s mother nodded enthusiastically, the emerald-cut diamonds pulling heavily on her earlobes, shaking with each bobble of her head. It was her mother, I imagine, who was the originator of this no-limits, black American Express get-out-of-jail-free card. She taught her daughter to swipe with reckless abandon and buy herself out of every sticky situation she caused.

God, I fucking hated Margo.

Her whiny, singsong slogan sends my six-year-old self into a rage. But it wasn’t a mistake, I screamed inside myself. Oh no, our eyes met right before she knocked the full container onto my poor but earnest attempt at flowers, instantly erasing them in an ocean of paint as blue as her blood.

I pushed my giant hair bow back to get a clearer view of my mother beside me. I pursed my little lips and widened my furious green eyes. Of course, I didn’t have these exact words then, but if I did, the look was saying: Did you see what this little bitch just did?

My mother patted my arm and nodded. She had seen. And I know she agreed—she was. And though my mother would never use these exact words, our silent exchange communicated the shared sentiment: we fucking hated Margo.

Margo lived in Osterville. I could simply tell you that it’s the richest village on Cape Cod, but to give you a better sense, I invite you to read with the intonation my father and I use with each other. Clench your teeth together, try not to move your lips, draw the words out, and be absolutely dripping in pedigree, darling. It should sound like, “Aaawsterville.” Naturally, we call the inhabitants, “Awsterville People,” our unserious catchphrase.

Margo’s grandfather owned jewelry stores and belonged to the exclusive Oyster Harbors Club—exclusive meaning absurdly rich WASPs only. For reference, in 1991, just a year or so before I dueled with Margo, Oyster Harbors quietly blackballed Jewish Reebok founder Paul Fireman. He responded to the snub by purchasing a nearby club that had gone bankrupt. As the saying goes, if you can’t join them, spend nine million dollars at auction and make a country club of your own.

After researching the matter, I called my dad to cross-check the article Fireman’s Fantasy. In it, they touted his membership inclusivity measures, claiming he admitted “Jews, Blacks, Asians, and women”—something Oyster Harbors might still (quietly) clench their pearls over.

I asked, “So, did they really let everyone join?”

He laughed. “Not to my recollection.”

Perhaps it was a fantasy after all.

Oyster Harbors Club House, 1940

At the time, we lived in the neighboring village of Marstons Mills, which, to “Awsterville People,” was the wrong side of Route 28. It wasn’t a place for boat shoes and polo shirts. It was for grass-stained sneakers—a dead giveaway that you mowed your own lawn and, therefore, certainly didn’t belong.

Our paths crossed at Osterville Bay Elementary, in the colorfully decorated basement that housed Mrs. Shrum’s kindergarten class. Mrs. Shrum was the quintessential kindergarten teacher—warm, excited, and endlessly loving. But Mrs. Shrum was no match for Margo.

Margo used our sweet teacher’s benevolence as a shield for her mischief. After any act of cruelty, she’d bat her puppy-dog eyes, tilt her head to the side, and slowly sweep her long, wavy blonde hair off her shoulder. It was a well-practiced performance of remorse—and utter bullshit.

I felt incredulous. How on earth did Mrs. Shrum not see through it? If she did, she never let on. Like clockwork, Margo spewed her magic mantra, and all was forgiven.

Margo would have loved this dress.

She wore crisp, poofy floral dresses with perfectly matching bows in every shade of pastel. I remember admiring her forever-pristine patent leather Mary Janes—definitely brand name, unlike my stiff, scuffed discount-store pair. I hate remembering how much that bothered me. In retrospect, it feels silly at best, deeply ungrateful at worst.

Thoughts of fashion click my brain over to an open but idle tab in my mind—jeans shopping. Specifically, the jeans I saw at the yoga studio last night. I pick up my phone to text my best friend, who works for the brand. I send her the link, asking if they’re actually good or if they just looked good on the stylish 24-year-old who wore them.

It’s 5:15 a.m., but she responds immediately. Yes, they’re good. Do I want them? Also, she’s now motivated to get up and work. I tell her I’m doing the same—trying to write my essay about this girl I fucking hated in kindergarten, which makes me laugh because why am I still thinking about Margo with such fury?

She responds, "You hate Margo lol."

I’m simultaneously pleased and horrified to realize she already knows the lore of Margo. Who else have I told about this hobgoblin? And, more importantly, why am I still so hooked on her?

No, you know what? It’s not crazy to cling to slights from thirty-some years ago. (I’m aware no one has said it was crazy—at least not out loud to me—but just in case you were thinking it, it’s not.) My claws remain clenched in her because people need to take accountability! People need to own up to their shitty behavior, say sorry, and do better!

It’s injustice. I want justice for my crappy flower painting! It doesn’t matter that it would have ended up in the trash anyway—it’s the principle.

I want justice for all the times she teased me for my outfits, and the only person who got in trouble was the one who retaliated. And no, it doesn’t matter that my mother did, on occasion, dress me like an extra from Little House on the Prairie—again, it’s the principle.

I can make fun of me. But not Margo.

NOT Margo.

this cheery toddler had yet to meet Margo and was blissfully unaware that she was dressed in the latest prairie fashion.

Sigh. I don’t know. Maybe I don’t hate Margo**. Maybe I hate that the world is so nauseatingly full of Margos.

People who float through life untouched by consequence—protected by inherited charm and money, shielded by the blind devotion of those who raised them and the exclusive institutions created by and for them. Maybe I hate that back then, I was just a kid with a ruined painting. But now, as an adult, I see the same story play out—just with bigger stakes and pricier buyouts.

Despite all my best efforts, I am still that kid, gripping my hair bow, looking around wide-eyed with fury, feeling powerless and desperate for accountability. Maybe I still want people to be bold enough to stand up and say:

“You’re right. That wasn’t a mistake. That was shitty, and people shouldn’t treat each other like that.”

Or maybe—more likely—I want to be bold enough not to take the shitty behavior in silence.

But here’s what I do know: there is something beautiful about the people who remember.

The ones who don’t let it go. Who still hold space for the little injustices—not out of bitterness, but because they know, deep down, that the small things matter. How we allow people to treat each other matters.

When we let the small bullshit slide, people clock that. They test the boundaries. They see what else they can get away with, regardless of who gets hurt.

Fairness and justice are still worth believing in, still worth fighting for—even when the world (and Margo) insists otherwise.

**I do hate Margo.

UPDATES FOR MY LRY MEMBERSHIP PEOPLE! I met with my team(!) at Uscreen today, and it seems like the whole process of onboarding and launching is a longer timeline than I’d like. They’re absolutely wonderful and I’m so excited about how supported both you and I will feel on this new platform (24 hour tech support! All the bells and whistles of a high-functioning membership site! Calendar! Favorites! No more Zoom! Commenting on classes! And my favorite feature, the private community chat page.) But to get it all just right, they estimate that everything will be migrated, organized, and ready for you to enjoy by this time next month. Thanks for being with me while we shift and begin LRY 2.0.

A note on my old content that you received in emails over the last 5 years: I have moved all the classes onto my membership and removed all ability to access my content on a pay-what-you-can model. This model was idealistic but unfortunately, unsustainable. If you’d still like to practice with me and the set fee for membership isn’t manageable right now, all you have to do is reach out to erin.gilmore7@gmail.com and tell me what is doable. There will be no questions, only open arms and a membership. Thank you for understanding this change and valuing all the time and effort I put into my career.