January 7, 2004

  • A Series of Disjointed Autobiographical Entries, pt. III, or A Lesson Of Fists And Impact
    Part I
    Part II

    An autumn afternoon, walking home alone from school when I heard the derisive catcalls. I lowered my head, clenched my jaw and walked a little faster. I didn't look back, but from the sound of it they were at least half a block away. I hoped I was too far for them to care, not worth the sprinting distance, not worth the effort.
    The jeering and name calling continued, closer and closer. My stubbornness had resigned me not to walk any faster, as if maintaining would deter them.
    A hard shove against my left shoulder, immediately followed by a sharp cuff to the back of my head.
    I spun, back pack in my left hand swung out in a wide arc, hoping to catch one of them in the head. No such luck. I let the bag go, letting it fly into someone's front yard.
    I took them in. Three of them, not much bigger than me. Two blonde and freckled (Patrick, John), one swarthy (John). All three of them my age; 6th graders.
    My hands came up.
    It started.
    All the punches thrown were wild, untrained haymakers. Fists hit faces, arms, shoulders and chests.
    A punch landed squarely on my temple and my vision exploded with black and stars. I lunge towards him and got him tangled up in a front headlock. I reached down and grabbed his belt with my free hand. It was the blonde John.
    A fist clipped my nose and my eyes watered and I ran backwards, dragging John with me, trying to avoid the punches of the other two.
    My arm tightened around his neck, my wrist digging into his throat and he's struggling.
    I'm falling backwards.
    My lower back hit the car's front quarter panel a split second after John's face.
    He screamed as we slid to the ground.
    A foot caught the inside of my thigh; a kick aimed at my crotch. My leg went numb from it, but I manage to get to my feet. We stood still, as if in tableau.
    My eye was swelling shut, my knuckles were raw. I didn't care. I was past the point of not wanting to fight, of being afraid to fight. Out of the corner of my vision, I see John on the ground, clutching his face. A long smear of blood against the grey paint of the car.
    I'm ready to get beaten to the ground and do as much damage as I can on the way down.
    Only, it never happened. Dumbly, I watched them collect themselves, their things and walk away.
    I don't know how long I stood there, hands up and my whole body shaking.

Comments (23)

  • muhahaha......im' the first commenter. I read your xanga every now and then and always comment, but I guess ur always too busy to reply back or return the eprops.

    I enjoy reading your entries, I guess cuz ur a great writer man. I never intend on reading it all, but I'll start and I'll easily get captivated and I eventually FINISH.

    haha......this was an interesting read.....I thought u were actually fighting....but you were the viewer. I guess I need to read part 1 and 2.......Is there gonna be a part 4?

    Peace

     

  • I've read part 2 before about Mr. G. I remember that entry. Part 1 was just as 'real' as the others.

    peace.

  • Dahling, I think that one day, we should all take the kids that we were, and go party somewhere, for staying alive and being the crazy quirks that we all are, today. Really, it's a wonder how so many amazing people endured such hardships as children. I don't understand what it is that makes certain kids more vulnerable, susceptive, a target of rage and ridicule, and I am constantly in awe when I hear other people's stories.  I wonder what ever happened to blonde John. In a perfect world, he'd be in jail now, serving life.

    I so love the way you write, Rich. Beautiful. I love you for it. I should have been your older sister, go after these kids with a bat. Next time, perhaps.

  • What happened when you got home?  I imagine (perhaps wrongly) that your parents would be pretty protective being that you are an only child.  Do you still remember all the boys last names and which houses were theirs? 

  • Reading this reminded me of that sick feeling of "not being liked" in elementary school. I remember hearing whispers about me and how it would suddenly be really hard to hold my head up.

    Being a kid is rough. Remembering being a kid is sometimes rougher.

  • It seems the only way I'd learn anything about you was from your entries. It wasn't supposed to be this way. Well, I suppose none of it matters anymore, anyway. You're incredibly gifted, Rich, and I'll always enjoy reading your thoughts....even if the content isn't what I want to see.  Kahra

  • I am so down with Chickapow. Very well written. You know it's good when it makes you think.

    peace ~

  • well i was reading previous comments here so as not to blindly say the same thing as somone else and i notice you've got a tough audience here.  i mean you've got one person who wants you to write different things and is sadly resigned to what you are in fact writing; then you've got another person who never intended to finish reading and sounds a little ticked that your writing sucked him in anyway.  sheesh!

    i just wanted to say good for you for standing up to them, and i wondered if this marked a turning point in your life or anything.  like a place where you suddenly realized that not everything was already written and had to end a certain way.

  • i remember a similar incident at the pool one summer. i was probably in 7th or 8th grade and the girl i was with had a big mouth and she got these two girls mad at us. i was so scrawny as a kid and to see these older girls coming after us, i have to tell you i was scared to death. i just remember this girl hitting me in the arm and pushing me. the whole time i just stood there like a fool. thinking back i should have gave it my all and stood up for myself. i wonder where she is now? i wonder if she remembers me? we would probably laugh about it if we ever ran into each other again.

  • This sounds like my last post. 

  • This definitely conjured up memories for me as well. And that is the key to powerful, effective writing. Is there something you can't do?

    luv julia

  • Wow...did someone actually say "I never intend to read it all"?

    I guess that's kind of a compliment...

    Anyhow, talk about dredging up some memories! All those ridiculous childhood fights just flashed through my head...

    Excellently done, as usual.

  • how come you got bullied? You don't strike me as particularly bully-able.

  • Well done, then and now. I've had those shakes.

  • I love these autobiographical entries.  I've said it before.  This was a great one too.  Glad you stood up for yourself, but also glad it didn't escalate.  I've only had 2 real fights in my life.  Junior High.  Three years of bullies.  Hated it.  I think girls may be worse than boys though, except for the physical damage part.

  • you seem to write with such ease ... this made me squirm as my husband was beaten seven shades of crap out of him before I met him ... he still has scars ... and sometimes we talk about it and I flinch just listening ...

     

  • We are all ever-impressed with your talent

  • Patrick John, I needed to know that name (no, I'm not kidding)  really good stuff, it's been spot on these last few posts, no?

     

  • thanks... and its my blasted scanner that makes the line. grr.

  • ah. the skirmishes of the childhood days. this was a very vivid account. i can't say i would have done so well to recall such an event. most of these occurrences for me were just hazy, blurry and purposefully forgotten. grade school was evil.

  • Eh, people talking about elementary school, childhood, and such.  In high school, there are many things that are quite the same way, you know?  I 'only' have 4 more years to finish the experience of the struggles and happiness of schooldays.  We may not be children physically at the moment, but we all have a child in our hearts.   I may sound crazy, but, we do.  Everyday in life is lived with me and the child within.

    Sorry for all those thoughts up there....Too much to think about lately.

    If only I could write as well as you.  I love writing, but hate English...  You really conveyed your thoughts in such an amazing way.  It blew me away.  I just got to reading the other parts and they are just as real and beautiful as this one.  But I'd have to say my favorite one and the deepest one was Part II.  You will write a Part IV, right?

  • Is it hard to write about this? (I guess I'm assuming it happened.) I have hard things, like this, and I can't imagine writing about it so vividly.

  • you write really well

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