A Way You Have to Be!
(Washington High
School, St. Paul, Minnesota, 1963-'65)
When he saw me standing in line, the senior—myself being a sophomore at the time—it wasn’t about
anything in particular, something about wanting to get ahead of me in the lunch
line, in the cafeteria, and then he and I started fighting, he had tried to
push his way in-between me and the guy ahead of me, and in the process pushing
me backwards, and he pushed me backwards in a hostile way, and I dragged him
out of the line like a ragdoll, I had
been weightlifting back then, I had muscles coming out of my ears, and fingers
and toes, and nose, much less biceps, and I overturned him concluded and onto
one of the tables, then leaning over him, knee on his chest, and about to
hammer on his face, decided in the clap of an eye, in choking him, thus, with
both hands curled around his roaster like neck, I was clogging his breathing,
per near knock him out cold, lest I kill
him I let up. Everybody was too stunned
to pull me off him, or fearful, or perhaps it was entertaining, he was the bully
sort; and he was about my weight, and my height, nearly the same built, but
surly with not nearly the strength. He couldn’t have gotten loose if he wanted
to, I had knocked all the fight out of him, when his back hit the table—like a
hammer hitting an anvil. When I let up on him, he couldn’t swallow, he sounded
hoarse. I hurt him bad: the show was over.
Well, I went back
to the line, regained my composure, and there were plenty of kids looking at
him and me, when he said, “It’s not fair a sophomore should get away with
this,” to his friends. I made a turnabout while down near the food counter at
this time, and said, “What did you say?” and I believe he replied, “I don’t know,
all right!” And he was all right, but with plenty of bruises I’d think, and
quite rough looking, sounding like a frog with a rustic tone to his voice; by
and large, he was on guard, not looking for a rematch, but perhaps wishing his
friends would back him up, and they didn’t.
I sat down and ate
my food off my tray, with Bill, a friend from the neighborhood, and nobody came
after me; I had plenty of friends from my neighborhood too, who were also tough,
and my brother was a senior there, and by and by I would have gotten even, and
Bill was a fighter too.
It was late, and
everyone had left the cafeteria, except me, who sat at a corner table, trying
to calm myself down some, an electric light overhead. I didn’t care if I’d go
late to class, matter of fact, I didn’t care if I ever went back to class.
In those days
(1963-'65), the principals, or at least at Washington High School, in St. Paul,
Minnesota, were all very strict. You may not believe this, but he wanted to
punish me and not the perpetrator the one who started it all, it was my second
fight, that year, and he wanted to expel me from school, with the exception of, allowing
me back in a week.
My brother got word
of the incident, and accompanied me to the principal’s office, —which I really didn’t
want to do—save, he wanted to have his say-so, and as for me, I was done with
the mess, and really didn’t care if I ever went back to school or not; when I
had confirmed with Mike what I considered, the good news, that, yes, I was
going to be expelled, he got angry—not at me, but the situation, and it took a
lot for him to get angry in those days, he wasn’t a hothead like me, but it got
his goat, that the other kid got off scot-free, this also was a hot peeve.
When we walked in
together, into the Principal’s office, he had been standing there previously by
his desk, he saw us, and then sat himself down in a chair against the wall—we
had no invitation: amused eyes, indexed book opened, as if he was giving some
word a diagnoses, some deep thought, had been pacing the floor just beforehand,
would be a good guess. My brother said, as if he had already accessed as to the
treatment being given me, “You live in a different world than we do, Mr.
Principle, we live down in a rough neighborhood, you should visit it sometime,
then you’d know we don’t let people push us around, my brother Chick, was
simply standing his ground.” (Most everyone referred to me back then as Chick,
not Dennis.)
The simplicity and directness of my
brother’s disapproval constituted almost a hurt to the principle: so
unexpectedly made himself accessible. I had no sense the principle was on the
defensive, this was no game. And there was some satisfaction to the additional
knowledge, he was acquiring.
“Well,” said the
principal, rotating his chair to the over-heated, radiator, as if in thought (knowing good and well he had
let the other kid off lightly):
“The other lad, said he started the fight, and your brother didn’t disagree!”
“Yes, I suppose you
could say that, but did you ask him why he started it?”
“Why…? I wasn’t
there.”
But Mike was
determined to get his point across, whether he liked it or not, either way, it
was coming out.
“What’s the matter
with you, you don’t let people push you out of the lunch line because they feel
like it, and allow them to bully you, and how would my brother look letting
this joker push him around so everyone can see, and you don’t run to the
principle for such matters…?”
“Is that what
happened?” asked the principal, in disarray.
“There’s nothing
wrong with the way my brother’s supposed to be! You would have simply let the
bully, bully him.”
“I’m sorry,” said the principal (ere, he yielded) “but I think we do understand each other, or perhaps
I want to, your brother was quiet on some of these facts, therefore, I’ll
simply give him a letter of reprimand, and he can bring it home, have your
mother sign it, and we’ll forget the suspension. But this is a warning, you do your
fighting elsewhere!”
I
never had the right words back then, so perhaps my silence, or deletion of the
facts, distorted the facts for the principle, he did not have a full
description, picture, whatever the case, mother never found out about it, I
simply signed the note, and returned it to the office the next day. Actually, I
had singed all her notes back then, had I let her sign it, they would have
figured it was a forgery.
I suppose as I look back on this, the
principle had closed sympathetically on this matter. And as I walked out of his
office, as I looked over to greet my brother’s eyes, I’m sure he could see in
mine surprise and delight. Kind of like saying, ‘Boy ain’t this cool though,”
but I didn’t say that, I didn’t say anything. I think my hands were even a
little moist, and I wiped my forehead dry, then dried my palms on my trousers a
second time. I didn’t like that kind of confrontation back in those days. I’d
had rather fought than confront, but I did seemingly breathe better through my
skin, I guess, perhaps that’s a good sign of health, so I’d learn later on in
life, that is to say, your body is healthy, because I felt full of oxygen,
ready for combat if need be. But somehow I was sweating’ more than usual now. “Funny,
ain’t it,” I thought, what verbal challenging can cause, per near
hyperventilation. Perhaps there was some booze seep out of me likewise, I did
my share of night drinking, too!
“Go on back to your class tomorrow” Mike
urged after a delicious moment of silence.
“Go on,” he insisted, “I’ll see you in
the neighborhood,” and I went to my locker and got my items: jacket and so
forth, and went about my way.
No:
1022 (9-15 & 16-2014)
