SMACKED AROUND

When I was in 7^th grade, the 8^th-grader whose locker was directly above mine thought it was fun to smack me on the top of the head any chance he got. This amounted to 4 or 5 times a day, as we would each go to our stacked lockers to get books between almost every class.

These smacks were neither fun nor playful. They actually hurt. Every time. He was, of course, bigger than me. There were only a couple of kids in school who weren’t, so I was pretty familiar with being bullied. But that doesn’t mean I liked it.

Each time this kid hit me, I asked him to stop – a strategy which was not gaining any traction. Tattling on him to the principal wasn’t going to work, either. Not only were school administrators unconcerned with bullying back then, it just wasn’t the “guy” way of handling things. But then neither was, “just letting them continue to hit you.” And while I was no stranger to fighting – you can’t be both tiny and loud and not attract a certain amount of violence into your world – I was not the “fighting at school” kind of kid.

After days and days of this, I mentioned my situation to my dad one night during dinner, not so much to seek guidance, but really just to tell him about my day.

“How was school?”

“Not bad. There’s a kid who hits me every day.”

“What?”

[I got him up to speed]

“Okay…so, you’ve asked this kid to quit?”

“Yes.”

“Several times?”

“Yes.”

“And he’s still hitting you?”

“As of 2:55 pm today, yes.”

“Okay, here’s what I want you to do. The next time he does it, don’t say a word. Just stand up and hit him in the nose as hard as you can.”

“WHA???”

It’s important at this point to explain that fighting was simply not allowed in our house. Yes, my two brothers and I wrestled and rough-housed and got mad at each other. But coming to blows was not allowed. Fighting in general was not condoned. It’s not like my dad was a pacifist or anything, and I don’t have any memories of fireside chats extolling the virtues of nonviolence. Fighting just wasn’t part of his fatherly guidance philosophy. So to have not only his blessings, but encouragement, to fight was beyond unprecedented.

I had carte blanche. To hit a kid. I could hardly believe my good fortune.

“Okay, but then what?”

“He’ll never bother you again. You won’t have to fight him a second time.”

“Hmmm…”

Please note that neither he nor I were concerned with any kind of school-authority-based consequences. These were indeed different times. Frankly, my only concern was that Dad was wrong about the “never bother you again” part. Seemed kinda counterintuitive to me. I mean, if somebody were to haul off and hit me, the last thing I would do is get on with my life and ignore that person forever.

I did not have to wait long to see if Dad was right. Between first and second periods the next day, this kid showed up right on schedule and smacked my head. I stood up and hit him in the nose as hard as I could. He dropped his books, grabbed his face, and started crying.

I felt like a million bucks.

A crowd quickly gathered, oohing and ahhing and lusting for more violence. I stood there, blood rushing in my ears, waiting for the inevitable counterattack. But there would be none, because my foe, red-faced and snotty, grabbed up his books and ran away. He would never bother me again.

Make that TEN million bucks.

As I paused to savor my victory, my eyes swept past the rapidly-dissipating crowd and landed upon the shining – no, glowing – no, radiant visage of 9^th grade beauty queen (gonna make up a name here) Susie Smith, who must have liked what she saw, because she was staring right at me while everyone else was dispersing to get to second period. Susie Smith was junior high royalty, a picture of post- (and I mean WAY post) pubescent perfection wrapped in a cheerleading skirt. Seriously. She was wearing her cheerleader uniform at that very moment. If fantastic, flowing, angel wings had sprouted from her sides at that very moment, I would not have been the least bit surprised.

In truth, I would have been happy if it had been just that moment. But to my unending shock and stupefication, Susie Smith walked over to me and began to speak. (It only added to my surprise that she spoke English in a human voice and not in a beam of humming light and energy heard only in the mind.)

“Did you just hit that guy?”

“Yes I did!”

“Without even warning him?”

“No warning. I just hit him.”

“You’re such a bully.” Spin. Combo skirt-and-ponytail flip. Gone.

“But-but-but—”

And that was it. My first time to beat down a bully in public (or private) and 99% of the witnesses didn’t care and the other 1% thought I was the bully. Had I known a thing at all about the world then I would have said something like, “Well, ain’t that how it always goes?”

But instead, I just stood there, mouth agape, feeling stupid.

It would be years before I realized Susie Smith not only knew nothing of my specific situation with that kid, but she knew nothing of my longstanding issues with being bullied. Apparently, the word “victim” was not in fact written across my forehead for all to see.

And I guess that’s a good thing, right? Right? I mean, does it get any more ironic than that? The prettiest girl in school – the one creature I was most convinced would regard me only as this tiny and inadequate pipsqueak – saw me instead as a tough guy?

Or am I getting that wrong, too? Maybe she didn’t think about me at all. Maybe she simply assessed only what she saw. Maybe, being a girl, she thought guys fighting was stupid and guys fighting without talking first was worse.

Oh, well. I guess there are a thousand ways to break this down and I refuse beat myself up (see what I did there?) for defending myself against a larger aggressor 35 years ago. My dad’s prediction about the Junior High Locker Smacker was true then and it’s true today. Standing up to bullies is strictly a one-time-per-bully thing. Which is why I pretty much have zero tolerance for bullies and will (metaphorically) punch them in the nose every time, but with the understanding that it’s just between me and the bully. How the rest of the world regards it is out of my control.

© 2014 Lee B. Weaver