“Good by Association,” Tambuli, May 1991, 47
Good by Association
“Excuse me, boys,” said a loud voice from behind John and me as a heavy hand fell on each of our shoulders, “but I think you’ve got something that doesn’t belong to you.”
I was too stunned to speak, but my friend John wasn’t.
“Hey, what do you think you’re doing?” he said as he wrenched his shoulder free and turned to face the man who had addressed us so suddenly. “We didn’t do anything. Who are you anyway?”
The man’s face turned red. “I’m Mr. Kennard, the manager of that store you just left,” he said. “And I watched you steal those candy bars.”
Steal? Candy bars? I looked at John. He didn’t even blink an eye as he continued to argue.
“What do you mean? I just bought these.”
“Now look, boy, I saw you take those candy bars and stuff them into your jacket pocket. Then I watched you as you left my store, without paying, and met your accomplice out here.
“And you,” he said, looking at me, “are just as guilty. I saw you reach for the candy bar as soon as this kid left the store. Even though you didn’t steal it, you’re just as guilty for letting him do the work and then sharing what he stole.”
His words shocked me. “Wait a minute. I didn’t do anything.”
“That’s what your friend said.”
“No, really, I didn’t do anything. I didn’t know he was going to steal anything.” I explained to Mr. Kennard how John had told me he had some money and asked me to wait outside the store while be ran in to get us something to eat.
Mr. Kennard didn’t believe me. “Look,” he said, “I don’t have all day to play games with a couple of teenage shoplifters. What are your names?”
He wrote down our names and made us come back inside the store while he called our parents. I was angry—angry at being wrongly accused of shoplifting and angry at John for stealing and getting me caught in the whole mess.
“Sorry,” John mumbled as we sat in Mr. Kennard’s office.
“Sure, but not nearly as sorry as I am.”
“No, really, Chris, I’m sorry. I didn’t think I’d get caught. I’ve never been caught before.”
“Look, I don’t want to talk about it. Just forget it, okay?” We sat in silence until our parents picked us up.
When Dad and I were finally alone in our car, I told him the whole story.
He listened quietly until I finished, then started the car. As we drove away from the store, he said, “I believe you, son, but you can’t blame Mr. Kennard for not believing you. You have to admit, you must have looked guilty. It’s a case where you’re guilty by association. You’ve heard me say before that you’re judged by the company you keep, haven’t you? Well, today you looked like a shoplifter because you were with one.”
In the weeks and years since the shoplifting incident, I’ve thought about what Dad said, about being judged by the company I keep. Being friendly with John didn’t do me any good at all. But I did learn the importance of having the right kind of friends. Fortunately, I’ve had many other friends, good friends, who made me good by association.
Two of my good friends were Walt and Liz. They had the greatest influence on me during high school. I wasn’t a member of the Church then, but I was a serious athlete. And because I took sports seriously, I didn’t drink, smoke, or use drugs. Neither did any of my friends, until our second year in high school. Suddenly, the guys I used to play basketball with were spending their weekends getting drunk at parties. I went to a few of the parties, but I didn’t like what I saw, so I stopped associating with my old friends.
That’s when I really got to know my Mormon friend, Walt. When everybody else was partying, he and I would find something better to do. Walt made it easy for me to be good because I knew he didn’t drink or smoke, so I never felt any pressure to either.
Walt didn’t swear, and he was always correcting me when I did. He was polite and well mannered (most of the time), and when I was around him, I felt I should try to act a little better myself. He was a serious athlete, as I was, but he also took his studies just as seriously. He studies hard and got good grades (something I did only occasionally). Being friends with Walt didn’t make me perfect, but it showed me how I could improve.
Of course, Walt also put a little friendly peer pressure on me about his church. “Hey, Chris,” he’d say, “you might as well be a Mormon—you don’t drink, smoke, or use drugs. You’re practically a Mormon anyway.” As we became better friends, we talked about his church a lot, and I started to meet other Latter-day Saint youth.
One of them was Walt’s girlfriend, Liz. She was an attractive, cheerful Mormon girl whom I used to tease unmercifully. Liz was the perfect lady, and as we got to know each other better, her good influence began to change me. I stopped swearing. And, most important of all, I became interested in the Church.
It wasn’t easy for me, a Catholic, to consider changing my religion, but good friends like Walt and Liz made it easier for me to investigate the Church. Liz encouraged me to seek out the truth and to do what was right. And when I had gained a testimony, she and Walt gave me the strength and courage I needed to go through with my decision to get baptized.
I know much has been said about how bad peer pressure can be, and it can be very bad. But when I look back on the friends I’ve enjoyed associating with, I’d say that peer pressure can be very good too. My friends have helped me to become a better person than I would have been without them.
Illustrated by Robert McKay