Bully Stories
In my men's group list there has been some discussion about a shirt like this.
It has brought some stories about how some were bullied. So I want to write this story about a bully in my childhood.
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I was in the forth grade and my best friend at school was Alex Rodriguez (too old to be the baseball player). Alex was a Mexican kid, big but not as big as me. Alex and I were the good guys. The bad guy was John French. John had been held back twice and should have been in sixth grade. John was a bully.
John terrorized most of the boys in the forth grade class. I don't know when John showed up. I don't think he was there at the start of the year and I'm sure he wasn't there at the end of the year. He had shown up in school not more than a month before. This is Orange County CA in a different time than now. Kids were not coddled and taken care of the way us middle class folk take care of our kids now. A play date, might have referred to a school performance.
We, the boys anyway, fought a lot in those days, but we had a code honor. You didn't hit someone when they were down, you didn't break someone's glasses, you didn't gang up on one guy,and you stopped the fight when he said "uncle." I had never lost a fight in school, but I would give up fighting soon after this.
When John came to school he needed to let us all know he was the meanest kid in forth grade. I remember that John did not do well in class and he was disruptive, but more than anything he hated being shown up in class. One day Billy laughed at some incorrect response the John gave to Ms. Jones. Miss Jones was a first year teacher and by my reckoning she was quite beautiful. I still remember the crush I had on her. I would be surprised if John did not feel as I. Billy was OK with Alex and me, but closer to Alex.
At lunch that day Alex and I were together, as usual, when on the play ground when over near the monkey bars a shoving match broke out. It was John and Billy. "Don't you ever laugh at me again!" Billy was scared, he knew he could not stand up to John. Billy stammered an "OK." But the next instant French cold cocked Billy and then jumped on him and started smashing his face with Billy on the ground. Alex and I ran over.
"Get off of him," Alex exhorted. John stopped longed enough challenge Alex to stop him. Even though Alex was younger and smaller then French he accepted. These days I would hope that a fight like this would have been stopped already by an alert staff member, but not back then 45 years ago. After administering one last blow to the hapless Billy he got up and engage Alex. Alex being honorable of course waited. As ten year olds our fights did not last all that long, but John and Alex got into a good tussle, after a few swings they where on the ground, and French get his legs around Alex's head. After a few minutes of this Alex began to yell uncle. French did not relent, and that is when I entered the fray.
I then told French to stop or I was getting in. The scenario repeated. French again got up to engage me, me waiting. Even though also younger I was John's size. I presented another psychological threat also, as my brother, in 6th grade, was both the biggest kid in school and acknowledged by all as the toughest. I slipped John's punch and tackled him. Perhaps I benefited from his tiredness. We wrestled for a short while and I got him in a head lock with my other hand prepared to punch him in the face if he did not give. After a while I was grateful that he gave in. We both got up. Still no adult to be seen. Words were exchange. "You are coward," I told him. "You ever do that to Billy again and I'll pound you," Alex asserted. Finally an\ teacher comes on the scene. We it break up, we did and the teacher asked no questions but took Billy to the nurse. We didn't say anything, that's part of the code too, don't squeal to the authorities. I wouldn't tell anyone this story for twenty years. The last words were French's, "this isn't over!"
The next day Alex and I were at our spot, leaning against the wall around the corner Ms Jones' class. No doubt we were discussing the last day's fight watching the playground and Master French. To our surprise John walked up to us with a friendly greeting. He was sorry and we had shown him that he was wrong, and now he wanted to be friends. He told us his dad had told him that he should make friends with us. Alex, perhaps the wiser of the two of us, refused. I was hesitant but acquiesced to walk home together after school. Alex advised me against it. I hooked up with John at the end of the day and engaged in like a friendly chat.
John lived with his dad. His dad had been to jail, had taught him how to fight. His mother had not been around since he was a baby. We lived in Stanton which boarders Anaheim. Our school and my house was three miles from Disneyland -- this is good thing when you are ten. I would find out that John lived on the wrong side of the tracks. As we are leaving John asks me to go home with him. At first I said I could not, but he begged, said that he really wanted me to see his house and spend some time together. I knew I could get away with it, and despite the school and parental rules I agreed.
So we passed my house and turned left toward the inactive railroad tracks, the drainage ditch, and the old still uncovered but inactive dump. This was a place, also against the rules, for endless hours of exploration and games for my brother, myself, and other mischievous friends. I knew the territory.
As we passed the tracks on the dirt road and the closed gate that cut to the dump I was feeling pretty good. I had a new friend that had told me many things about his life, and I perhaps had told him some things about my alcoholic father and my other troubles. For some reason John fell a few steps behind but encouraged me to continue. Suddenly, I found myself face down in the dirt powder of the road. I turned onto my back and shocked asked, "why did you do that?"
"Now I'll show how to really fight!" He then pulled out and threw a small pocket knife at my feet and proceeded to open a slightly bigger one. "Get up and fight," he demand! "No, I'm not stupid," I squeaked. We stayed in this position, me lying on the dirt with French standing over me for what seemed like the longest time. I guess even French had some code of honor because eventually acquiesced. He let me know that I could not tell anyone or he would kill me, kicked some dirt at me and stomped off toward home. After I laid there crying for a few minutes. I got up dusted the dirt from my cloths and went home.
When I got home my mother noticed I was late and that I had some dirt on my cloths that I had not completely cleaned. I made up some story about staying after school which she bought -- one of the benefits of parents overwhelmed with their own lives. At diner that night I considered telling, I was scared and really wanted to tell, but I was also ashamed and scared to tell. I'm sure I consider telling for some time but it stayed a secret.
I made up some story for Alex and stayed away from John. I suspect my relationship with Alex was damaged and maybe my trust of the world as a safe place. Fortunately, John French moved away again after a few months -- his father had gone back to jail and he had to go to a foster home again. Sadly, Alex also moved away before the end of the year. And as I said I kept the story to myself, forgetting for most of that time, for twenty years.
Later that year I got into a fight with another boy on the play ground. It got broke up by a teacher, no punishment. After I stood there crying, which the other boy took to mean he had won the fight. I didn't know why I was crying, but I resolved then and there to never be in a fight again -- the only except to that was a fight with my older brother five years later. I cold cocked him when he didn't expect it, but when he got up he beat the shit out of me.
It has brought some stories about how some were bullied. So I want to write this story about a bully in my childhood.
----
I was in the forth grade and my best friend at school was Alex Rodriguez (too old to be the baseball player). Alex was a Mexican kid, big but not as big as me. Alex and I were the good guys. The bad guy was John French. John had been held back twice and should have been in sixth grade. John was a bully.
John terrorized most of the boys in the forth grade class. I don't know when John showed up. I don't think he was there at the start of the year and I'm sure he wasn't there at the end of the year. He had shown up in school not more than a month before. This is Orange County CA in a different time than now. Kids were not coddled and taken care of the way us middle class folk take care of our kids now. A play date, might have referred to a school performance.
We, the boys anyway, fought a lot in those days, but we had a code honor. You didn't hit someone when they were down, you didn't break someone's glasses, you didn't gang up on one guy,and you stopped the fight when he said "uncle." I had never lost a fight in school, but I would give up fighting soon after this.
When John came to school he needed to let us all know he was the meanest kid in forth grade. I remember that John did not do well in class and he was disruptive, but more than anything he hated being shown up in class. One day Billy laughed at some incorrect response the John gave to Ms. Jones. Miss Jones was a first year teacher and by my reckoning she was quite beautiful. I still remember the crush I had on her. I would be surprised if John did not feel as I. Billy was OK with Alex and me, but closer to Alex.
At lunch that day Alex and I were together, as usual, when on the play ground when over near the monkey bars a shoving match broke out. It was John and Billy. "Don't you ever laugh at me again!" Billy was scared, he knew he could not stand up to John. Billy stammered an "OK." But the next instant French cold cocked Billy and then jumped on him and started smashing his face with Billy on the ground. Alex and I ran over.
"Get off of him," Alex exhorted. John stopped longed enough challenge Alex to stop him. Even though Alex was younger and smaller then French he accepted. These days I would hope that a fight like this would have been stopped already by an alert staff member, but not back then 45 years ago. After administering one last blow to the hapless Billy he got up and engage Alex. Alex being honorable of course waited. As ten year olds our fights did not last all that long, but John and Alex got into a good tussle, after a few swings they where on the ground, and French get his legs around Alex's head. After a few minutes of this Alex began to yell uncle. French did not relent, and that is when I entered the fray.
I then told French to stop or I was getting in. The scenario repeated. French again got up to engage me, me waiting. Even though also younger I was John's size. I presented another psychological threat also, as my brother, in 6th grade, was both the biggest kid in school and acknowledged by all as the toughest. I slipped John's punch and tackled him. Perhaps I benefited from his tiredness. We wrestled for a short while and I got him in a head lock with my other hand prepared to punch him in the face if he did not give. After a while I was grateful that he gave in. We both got up. Still no adult to be seen. Words were exchange. "You are coward," I told him. "You ever do that to Billy again and I'll pound you," Alex asserted. Finally an\ teacher comes on the scene. We it break up, we did and the teacher asked no questions but took Billy to the nurse. We didn't say anything, that's part of the code too, don't squeal to the authorities. I wouldn't tell anyone this story for twenty years. The last words were French's, "this isn't over!"
The next day Alex and I were at our spot, leaning against the wall around the corner Ms Jones' class. No doubt we were discussing the last day's fight watching the playground and Master French. To our surprise John walked up to us with a friendly greeting. He was sorry and we had shown him that he was wrong, and now he wanted to be friends. He told us his dad had told him that he should make friends with us. Alex, perhaps the wiser of the two of us, refused. I was hesitant but acquiesced to walk home together after school. Alex advised me against it. I hooked up with John at the end of the day and engaged in like a friendly chat.
John lived with his dad. His dad had been to jail, had taught him how to fight. His mother had not been around since he was a baby. We lived in Stanton which boarders Anaheim. Our school and my house was three miles from Disneyland -- this is good thing when you are ten. I would find out that John lived on the wrong side of the tracks. As we are leaving John asks me to go home with him. At first I said I could not, but he begged, said that he really wanted me to see his house and spend some time together. I knew I could get away with it, and despite the school and parental rules I agreed.
So we passed my house and turned left toward the inactive railroad tracks, the drainage ditch, and the old still uncovered but inactive dump. This was a place, also against the rules, for endless hours of exploration and games for my brother, myself, and other mischievous friends. I knew the territory.
As we passed the tracks on the dirt road and the closed gate that cut to the dump I was feeling pretty good. I had a new friend that had told me many things about his life, and I perhaps had told him some things about my alcoholic father and my other troubles. For some reason John fell a few steps behind but encouraged me to continue. Suddenly, I found myself face down in the dirt powder of the road. I turned onto my back and shocked asked, "why did you do that?"
"Now I'll show how to really fight!" He then pulled out and threw a small pocket knife at my feet and proceeded to open a slightly bigger one. "Get up and fight," he demand! "No, I'm not stupid," I squeaked. We stayed in this position, me lying on the dirt with French standing over me for what seemed like the longest time. I guess even French had some code of honor because eventually acquiesced. He let me know that I could not tell anyone or he would kill me, kicked some dirt at me and stomped off toward home. After I laid there crying for a few minutes. I got up dusted the dirt from my cloths and went home.
When I got home my mother noticed I was late and that I had some dirt on my cloths that I had not completely cleaned. I made up some story about staying after school which she bought -- one of the benefits of parents overwhelmed with their own lives. At diner that night I considered telling, I was scared and really wanted to tell, but I was also ashamed and scared to tell. I'm sure I consider telling for some time but it stayed a secret.
I made up some story for Alex and stayed away from John. I suspect my relationship with Alex was damaged and maybe my trust of the world as a safe place. Fortunately, John French moved away again after a few months -- his father had gone back to jail and he had to go to a foster home again. Sadly, Alex also moved away before the end of the year. And as I said I kept the story to myself, forgetting for most of that time, for twenty years.
Later that year I got into a fight with another boy on the play ground. It got broke up by a teacher, no punishment. After I stood there crying, which the other boy took to mean he had won the fight. I didn't know why I was crying, but I resolved then and there to never be in a fight again -- the only except to that was a fight with my older brother five years later. I cold cocked him when he didn't expect it, but when he got up he beat the shit out of me.