(to be continued)
High school: Wearing a Letterman's
jacket as a jock, and, having a pecking order implanted in my behavior, I can
confess that I too became a bully. One would think that, because of my
experience having been the target of bullying, I would have some compassion for
others like me. No... that didn't happen. Most certainly, I carefully picked my
fights and only pushed around boys I thought I could beat. In those day, (I'm
not so sure what happens these days), it was common for any encounter to
proceed similarly: Usually in the hallways between classes a challenge was
thrown down and it was agreed that we would meet somewhere after classes to
scrap. All the rest of the day, as word got around, a crowd would gather at
the chosen and agreed on meeting place. One such popular place was
the parking lot behind Ron's drive-in. Sometimes I picked the fight; other
times, I was picked by someone who wished to acquire or keep, I suppose, a
position in the pecking order. By then it would have been a great shame
for one or the other to back down. I can remember going through the rest of my
classes with a gnawing in my gut, fighting off the fear, pumping up the courage
in front of my classmates to face what was going to go down.
*****
My last fight in
high school was with a friend I once sparred with (as he had been training for
boxing in the Golden Gloves). I was a junior in high-school at the time, as we
were about to slug it out, I became aware of a disgust for the crowd that had
gathered. My contempt grew... I saw the viciousness of their thirst for a
good fight. We threw punches... aware of each other's abilities... kept a
distance between blows... hearing the jeers of the crowd... we danced around
each other, avoiding blows as best we could.... I'm not sure who began it, but
we both grinned at each other as we played like we
were Cassius Clay... laughed at ourselves, laughing at the silliness
of it all... the blood-thirst of our audience... suddenly, in a
shared moment of clarity, both dropped our arms...put them around our shoulders
walking out as the Red Sea of our taunters parted before us. I heard from one
punk; "Queers!... Why don't you kiss each other!"
We stopped…
challenged the loud-mouthed coward to come out and face either one of us. When
nobody came forward we walked away, joined our mutual friends, drove up into
the hills away from the scene drank vodka and a case of beer at Booze
Rock. Drunk... spayed out face up on the hood of a 1950 Ford, I swore to a full
moon I'd seek out peace with... I don't know... I was very drunk. But my
bullying stopped in the light of the full moon. Sometimes, late at night
or in moments of quiet, I think of my adolescent behavior and am proud of us
both for what we did but ashamed for those I picked on before. It was a moment
of clarity.
My first step
against bullying came during a time when I was still a respected athlete (even
though I had recently been kicked off the track and cross country teams). I
still wore my Letterman's jacket so I attended a Lettermen's Club meeting that was
called to deal with the topic of Beatle haircuts, stove pipe pants, Mod coats
and Beatle boots. It is hard to believe now when I think of it. The hair would
be considered short by the standards of only a few years later. One of our
coaches showed up at the meeting to bring up the topic and voice his disdain
for these punks. It was agreed by the group… mine was the only dissenting vote…
to confront the boys dressed this way and the idea was to clip the hair of the
first one seen after the meeting. I was outraged and followed them out into the
hallway where they circled one of my friends, a leader of a garage band. He was
of slight build and certainly not a threat to anyone. One of the massive
football jocks had his scissors out and the poor kid by the scruff of his neck
about to carry through with the Lettermen's Club decision when I elbowed my way
into the circle… "If you are going to cut hair, start with mine!"
The jock didn't
know what to do. My action completely threw him off guard and the others in the
circle of blue Lettermen jackets went silent.. their jeers of "faggot"
and "queer" ceased.
One from the
circle finally sputtered, "...but you are one of us?"
I had a righteous
cause now and I jumped at the opportunity to say, "You cut his hair, you
might as well cut mine too, if you do that, I'm NOT one of you."
By that time a teacher
saw what was happening and broke up the cowardly circle. I walked away feeling
as though I had to do something more about it. I wrote a manifesto and
described the incident and the role of the school administration. It was too
controversial for the school newspaper. My dad had an old mimeograph machine
from the old days when he owned a tire shop. I broke out the mimeograph machine
and, though I composed it, my handwriting was sloppy and recognizable; I had Rich,
L. hand-write an my anonymous posts in an almost perfect script.
We placed may
manifesto on our school's bulletin board, whose space was for posting student events
and comments. It was taken down almost immediately as the staff noticed the
attention it got from gathering students. We posted it again and again and
managed to do so covertly with an update numbering the times it had been
removed.. I felt like I was in the French Resistance or something… exposing the
administration's complicity in haranguing the unorthodoxy of Mod style hair
cuts and attire. I titled my manifesto: PHID… the Preservation of Human
Individualism and Dignity. Fid being a mariner term in Webster's: a pin of hard
wood or steel that tapers to a point and is used in opening strands of rope.
Then there was a Memorial
Day assembly. At that assembly a groups of us… some were jocks who wanted to
fit in with the rebels and some were just in on the fun as we joked and poked
fun with hoots and disruptions of the various speakers. I wasn't, but they were
shocked, as our Vive Principal called out a half dozen names over the intercom at
closing announcements ending the assembly. One by one, loud and clear, we were ordered
to show up in his office. What happened in that office was a real eye opener
for me; a new respect was garnered for the man I had only considered an
authority, and an enemy. Also, a heightened disgust for my fellow jocks and
classmates was enflamed as much. The students I sat with in the office were
respected jocks too but I lost all respect for them as our Vice Principal spoke
about his time as a Marine on Iwo Jima and his
pals he lost there. My cohorts on the bench were crying… but not from Rasmussen's
admonition about honor and respect… One cried out indignantly; "Why did
you call out our names over the intercom where everyone could hear it… I have a
reputation!" The others protested in agreement.
My God, I thought,
these guys didn't hear a word "ole Razz" said. I held my peace and hung
my head in shame. No tears… no protests. I hadn't thought about what Memorial
Day meant. Hell, my dad was with the Third Army in Europe .
What did I think I was doing?
Razz dismissed the
others but told Rich and me to stay seated. After the others left he spoke
directly to me, "Thank you for listening. I'm proud that you two didn't
cry like babies."
I had nothing to
say and felt it wasn't enough but I answered, "I'm sorry Razz, I wasn't
thinking…"
"That is what
I mean," then he changed the subject, "I know that you two are the
ones posting on the bulletin board."
"Uh, how do
you figure?" Rich said… looking aside at me for support, he continued,
"We had nothing to do with it."
"It doesn't
matter to me. If you want it printed, clean up the language and present it to
the Bear (our school paper) and have printed legit… can you try that?"
"Sure, sounds
good to me. I'll suggest it to…" I offered, trying not to blow my cover.
"Rich, you
can go now." He then gestured towards me. I want to have a few more words
with you though."
*****
After Rich left he
brought up another subject that completely smashed any respect I might have had
towards my fellow jocks.
"It is a good
thing that you are still working out in the gym," I kept up my
discipline and tried stay in shape hoping to be back on the team in the spring.
He continued,
"I'm not accusing you and I don't believe you are doing it but there has
been a theft… a wallet taken from a locker and you are the number one
suspect."
"What the
fuck?"
"Like I said,
I don't agree but you are banned from the gym."
"But I'm not
the thief!... Look Razz, … someone's got to back me on this."
"Can't do it…
Coaches agree with your accusers and it is their gym."
I knew it was
because I stood up against the hazing… pissed off the wrong people. I was done
with it for sure after that.
*****
Then there was
sexual conduct. What I thought of as mere sexual aggressiveness was a part
of my belligerent attitude back then too. In those days, if a girl got pregnant
(referred to as "knocked-up") she had to leave school and, either go
to what was called an unwed mother's home (usually a Catholic run joint) or
drop out of school altogether. Some, with the means, disappeared a few weeks
for a mysterious trip to Mexico
There was one girl
who, it was commonly known, would "put out" to almost anyone. It
was said that she once took on the whole football team... again, it was said.
All one had to do was knock on her door when her dad was at work... no
mom...divorced perhaps... don't know. My friend and I went to her door one day
and, to our dismay, dad answered the door. He told us that she was no longer
living there and that we ought never come back.
My conscience
aches at the memory of the look on his face all these years later. I still
didn't "get it" about how I was to treat women but it was a start. I
saw in his face a human being deeply hurt and concerned about his daughter and
disgust at the way we had participated...
It was a start...
feeble as it was... at becoming an adult... perhaps human.
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