As a child, I was taught never to fight or even defend myself my aunt Elsie and her husband Ernie. If I violated, my hands and feet would be bounded together with duct tape and I was throw into a shower of cold water. I would then receive countless lashes all over my wet, naked body with a thick suede belt and be doused with rubbing alcohol. How the neighbors never called the police upon hearing my screams, will always be a mystery to me. If I was lucky, there wasn’t any alcohol in the house. If I was unlucky, I got hit with the buckle end of the belt, ripping pieces of flesh off my skin and then have alcohol poured on top of this. Either way, it was a miserable existence that made me pray for my own death.
As a result, I didn’t fight very much and took a lot of shit from other kids. I was considered soft. What the others couldn’t possibly understand was that it wasn’t them that I was afraid of. I just had far worst nightmares waiting for me at home if I arrived with the smallest scruff on my face, hands or clothes.
My aunt Elsie passed away on December 14th, 1983. I was estranged from her at the time and lived with my aunt, Titi Olga. I had conflicted feelings towards her death, but something about it freed me psychologically from her grasp.
The next day I went to school and pretended that I was fine with it all. But how could I possibly be? I was numb, shocked and confused.
Alfonso was a boy in school who was reaching 6 feet in height and outweighed the average kid by at least 50 pounds if not more. He was a cliché of a bully. He picked on anybody he was able to, talked about their mothers, pushed, shoved and tripped and slapped the smaller kids for no reason except that he felt like it.
I sat next to Eddie in class and confided in him about what happened the day before. He was warm and supportive towards my grief. I thought I might cry and asked the teacher to be excused to go to the lavatory. Once inside, I peed in the urinal. Moments later I heard the door open and somebody walking in. Then I heard Alfonso.
“What’s up you bitch motherfucker? Are you going to cry? Awwwww!”
I ignored the jerk.
“I should fuck your little bitch ass up and give you something to cry about.”
My aunt Elsie used to tell me that, “I’ll give you something to cry about.”
“Leave me alone, Alfonso.” I advised him with forced but calm monotone.
“You don’t tell me what to do.”
Alfonso shoved my head hard, making me slam my forehead into the ceramic tile wall. I zippered my pants and faced him.
“What?”
Without warning I swooped down low, grabbing the back of his ankles and yanking his feet from underneath the floor, slamming him on his back. I kicked him in between his legs one good time. This knocked the wind out of him. I towered above him and suddenly dropped on one knee on to his fat stomach. I still can’t identify what came out of his mouth to this day. It wasn’t exactly vomit and it wasn’t entirely blood. I slammed my elbow into face and then I lost my cool. I slammed my elbow into his face excessively, unleashing 10 years of rage and pain in the process. I finally got up with tears in my eyes and kicked him one last time in the face.
“If you ever put a hand on me again, I’ll take your fucking life.”
I allowed him to get up and escape before I could decide to attack him again. I went into a stall and cried and cried and cried for my aunt. Emotionally, I was broken.
Alfonso left the building immediately but not before enough people could see what I have done to his face. Eddie says to this day he’s never seen anybody’s face as badly beaten as his. The news sent shock waves through the school. Nobody suspected that I was capable. People looked at me a whole lot differently after that day. Alfonso returned to school about three weeks later, very humbled. Fortunately for him, his face healed up well. No permenant damage was done. We were both changed boys after that incident, but I’m not sure if I was the one who changed for the better.
Posted on October 11, 2007 at 08:24 AM | Comment (5 comments)
