My son, Jacob, came running into the house crying. He was saying something about the neighbor boy hitting him. I shouldn’t have, but I instinctively asked “Did you hit him back?”—just like my old man. Saying that instantly reminded me of how much pain and terror my bullies caused me. I felt an old, horrible dread.
I had three bullies in three different cities. The first one was Blake in the little town of Monahans, Texas. Blake was inches taller than all of us other boys. He was that kid who was the center of attention during recess. I don’t remember a lot of the bullying I got from Blake. Concussions tend to do that to your memory.
It was during recess one day, and I was climbing the ladder to lean out and grab the first rung of the monkey bars. Suddenly, I felt like I was floating and everything was in slow motion. I bounced on the ground, and everything faded to black. I woke up with a teacher slapping me in the face, and I immediately began puking. They got me to the principal’s office, where I puked. They called my mother who got me into her car, where I puked.
My parents drove me 40 miles to Odessa, where I was diagnosed with a major concussion. Several years later, an old school mate confirmed that right as I leaned out to grab that first monkey bar, Blake did indeed push my legs out from underneath me, causing my head to go back and slam into the metal ladder of the playground equipment.
As soon as that terror ended, the next one began when my dad announced in the middle of the school year that he had been transferred with Frito-Lay. We would be moving from our little oil boom town of 6,000 people to Houston, where I was to ride a bus to school and back.
That very first day, as the new kid on the bus headed to Stovall Middle School, I met “Butch.” I can’t remember his real name, but all these years later he reminds me of Butch the bully of the Our Gang short films. Butch introduced himself by jamming a giant wad of his pink bubble gum into my hair. He then took to extorting my lunch money from me every single day. No matter where I hid, he seemed to find me, with his hand out wanting my 60 cents.
After several weeks of this, I went to my dad, who became furious that his hard-earned money was ending up in some other kid’s pocket. He told me I had better not give up another dime or I would get a whipping. When I asked him what I should do, he offered, “Well, pick ya up a two-by-four, and next time he comes near ya hit him over the goddamned head!” Dad must have grown up around an abundance of discarded lumber, as he suggested this on more than one occasion.
Like clockwork, Butch was there the next day with his hand out. Trembling, I told him he wasn’t getting my money ever again. Butch was in my art class that afternoon. While everyone was working on their projects, he glared at me and pounded his fist over and over into his hand. Suddenly, the sound of kids quietly cutting paper was interrupted by a loud wailing as I burst into tears. My small town hayseed brain could no longer process the fear, and I spontaneously erupted. Every single eye was on me.
Whatever the teacher did to allay my fears didn’t work, so I came to the conclusion that I could no longer ride the bus. I decided to walk home 5 miles via the Interstate 45 access road, which was equally terrifying. I was so scared that somewhere along the route I wet my pants, and my jeans began to chafe my legs. This time, my mother had had enough, and she intervened with both the school and my dad. Butch just ignored me, and my dad never said another word about it.
We moved to Tyler a year later. Being skinny as a rail, I was teased and called names, but it seemed the days of being seriously bullied were behind me. I started using my sense of humor as a weapon. The popular kids accepted me as the “wild and crazy guy” and voted me class clown my senior year.
One afternoon as I was leaving government class, I heard someone shout out my last name. I turned to see a bulky sophomore named Stafford leaning against a tree. “Hey man, I hear you’ve been making my girlfriend laugh. Why are you doing that?” he asked. “Because you can’t?” was my instant reply. Stafford had weird eyes, and my comeback made them roll.
“I’m gonna kick your ass if you don’t stop making my girlfriend laugh,” he replied. Even at 17 years old I was astonished at the stupidity of that statement. But thanks to Blake and Butch, I was scared to death. I assured Stafford that I would try and not be humorous when interacting with his girlfriend. But he just kept showing up two or three times a week. I had a friend who was an offensive lineman on the football team and even though it was humiliating being a senior with a sophomore bully, I asked him for a favor. I never saw Stafford again.
My son was fine. The neighborhood boy who hit him was actually his friend across the street, who is a year younger, two inches shorter and harmless. But this was the first time I had felt that fear in years and it was for my boy, because I protect him all the time. I told him that if anyone ever picks on him that he should come to me and talk about it. I’m not sure what I’ll tell him to do when the time comes, but I can assure you it won’t involve searching for a handy two-by-four.
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