When I was in the fourth grade, things at home were rapidly deteriorating. My father's after dinner six pack of Michelob was turning into a skip dinner case of beer. The fights were every night now. School was a place I could go and hide. I could forget about everything that was happening at home and lose myself in teacher approval, good grades, and a world of books, art and music. I could be anonymous.
I used to tell the kids at my school that my parents were getting a divorce. In fact I fantasized about it. I heard other kids talking about their "Step-Dad" or visits with their "Real Dad" and I wanted to connect with them. I wanted to belong somewhere because I certainly wasn't making it in the 'crust cut off your sandwich' crowd. I felt odd and weird and awkward the way having an alcoholic parent makes you feel. I just wanted to disappear.
To make things worse, there was Angel. Angel in the classroom was controlled and tolerable. Angel at recess was like freeing a caged and hungry animal. She was a stocky African American girl that was in my class. She wasn't fat, but thick. She wore her hair in two short braids that attached at the nape of her neck. She had a mouth full of white teeth ready to reveal themselves at the expense of others. She was boisterous and obnoxious. She made fun of everyone. She was a playground gypsy. She operated on the periphery taking her antics from group to group. You see, Angel was working on mastering the art of snaps or playin' the dozens. She was honing the art of the put down. Peppered with a few shoves and a sucker punch here or there, her insults revealed the true flavor of her personality. It sounds harmless enough. I guess you could say she was a bully. Any institutional environment would be incomplete without one. The bully and the institution are, after all, like a bat and a ball. One hits the other and sets a whole game in motion.
When it was my turn, Angel would talk about how poor I was, how my family was on welfare, and how the clothes I wore were "bobo's." That was her made up word for generic. She was annoying. She was bigger than I and she was bolder than I. I tried to ignore her. I really did. But her words were so true. She brought the pain of my home life to the surface of my school life. I levied tears daily. Anyone who has gone to public school knows that to cry is like the kiss of death. It is a sign of weakness that reeks like the rotten flesh on the wounded leg of a lame gazelle picked up by every predator within a mile radius. But, sometimes it was just too much and the water would come forth. Then the bell would ring and it would be over for a little while. I could go hide in my books again.
Each day I would go home and complain to my mother about how Angel was bothering me at school. She tried to explain the concept of the bully to me. She told me that if I really wanted it to stop, I needed to stand up to Angel. I thought she was crazy and was thankful that logic and the instinct for self preservation keeps us from doing such rash things. Surely I would end up maimed for life and sipping liquid dinners through a straw if I did that. Did I mention she was bigger than I? I mean I was always so skinny. Angel was a solid wall built brick by brick of well developed thick skin. I couldn't touch her. She had two older brothers and any chink in her armor was well hidden from me.
It was getting worse too. Where there was once a sarcastic smile accompanying her insults, Angel's face was now contorted and her breath was hot as she got closer and closer to me. Her shoves were now full blown pushes. Her once light sucker punches were starting to sting.
Each evening my mother would want to know if Angel was still bothering me. I tried to lie to her to escape further pressure. Sometimes she would see through it and I would tell her everything and she would get so frustrated with me. Finally, she put her foot down. She was at her wits end. I mean that literally because all she could think of was to tell me that if I came home and told her I was getting pounded on at school again, she was going to pound me at home. Those are my words not hers. But that is about how much sense it made to me at the time. It still doesn't make sense to me.
When I got whipped at home, it wasn't something you could shake off easily. It was something you had to wear for a while. My parents were all about keeping their word too, God bless 'em. So I knew I would have to find my fists the next time that Angel messed with me.
I went to school the next day with a brick in my throat. I watched Angel's every move with wide eyes on alert. I wondered when it was all going to go down. If Angel went to the pencil sharpener, I knew about it. If Angel went to the coat room, I knew about it. If Angel went to the teacher and asked for a bathroom pass, I knew about it. Finally, the bell rang. It was recess.
Sure enough, Angel was advancing to step into the comfortable grooves her stereotypic pacing from the last two weeks had worn into the grass around where I played. She had been having too much fun at my expense not to come back for more. She started right off with how my Mom was a prostitute that stood on the corner of Main Street. She pretended to hold her waistband out while chanting "nickels and dimes, nickels and dimes" as if she were my mother catching money in her underwear.
She got closer and closer until I could feel hot gusts of air on my face with her every word. The rigor mortis of fear set in. I felt the blood drain to my feet creating weights so heavy I couldn't move. My vision blurred and finally went dark. I could hear nothing but my heart pounding thunderously in my ears. I shouted at her to leave me alone. I felt the thumb on my right hand closing around my sweaty fingers. In desperation I swung out blindly. My reach awkwardly landed on her neck.
She must have been caught off guard because she just stood and stared at me for what seemed like a long time. Finally, her rage caught up with her and she pushed me so hard I would have fallen to the ground if someone hadn't been standing behind me. Kids were beginning to gather around. I pushed her back, not creating much of a stir in Angel's stout frame. I shook more than she did. It was at this moment when the heavens smiled upon me and God himself decided to intervene and save me from an ass whoopin' that day. Out of the light walked Mrs. Grey, recess duty aid. She blew her whistle and shouted something about breakin' it up and firmly led us both to the principal's office.
Angel never messed with me again. A few weeks later, I missed a day of school to go to Charity Newsies with my Mom. Charity Newsies is an organization that gives new clothes to poor kids. We were greeted by a person at the front office who took us through a warehouse stacked floor to ceiling with clothes. I was told to choose one of two coats, two of four color turtle neck sweaters, two pairs of pants etcetera.
I went to school the next day feeling as if I had won a shopping spree. That is until I saw Angel. She was wearing a new coat too. I recognized it as the style of coat other than the one I had chosen at Charity Newsies. Our eyes met and I braced myself. She looked away. I couldn't believe it! I was wearing a huge 'I'm poor make fun of me bulls eye' and she didn't even take a shot. Sure I had something on her in return. But I didn't think she cared. I did.
Later in the day, our paths crossed in the coat room and Angel said, "You went to Charity Newsies yesterday didn't you?" "Yeah," I said stiffly. "Did you see all those clothes?" she said with her brown eyes wide wearing an open smile. There was an uncomfortable pause. She looked down. "I won't tell nobody 'bout you if you don't tell nobody 'bout me," she said. I nodded. We never spoke of it again.
My coat was warm all winter long and I was glad to have my lavender and pastel blue turtle neck sweaters. The jeans were the thick dark denim that never faded or wrinkled. But they were warm too...ugly at the height of the Jordache craze...but warm.
I relaxed a little around Angel and we sometimes played together out on recess. I was always on my guard though. We played double Dutch with Vanette Middleton. Angel didn't make fun of people quite as much. She gave Vanette and I a hard time about being skinny and tall. I could handle that because I wasn't alone. Vanette was actually skinnier and taller than I. Plus, she was pretty good at deflecting Angel's put downs with some of her own. So I learned a little something about how to play the dirty dozens. It never felt right though. I only chimed in when I had to just to show I could hold my own.
So was my Mom right? I don't know? What did I learn? I learned how to mimic being empowered and this was enough to bluff my way out of some other public school situations. I learned that bullies are really insecure and if you hold your ground they really do back off every single time. I learned that it never feels good to fight or hurt another person and that I wanted to avoid that every time I could but not at my own expense. I learned that I am worth standing up for. I later learned that if you stand up for yourself from the get go and refuse to turn your power over to the bully, you can usually avoid violence altogether. Would I do the same thing to my kids if they were faced with this kind of situation? No. Somehow it still just doesn't feel right.
