Bullies
With Mamaw around, the bullies in the
new neighborhood were of little concern. There were four of them; two sets of
half-brothers. As implied, country life also meant that wrestling and brawling
were spectator driven recreational sports, much like fighting chickens or dogs.
Of the four, the youngest fit my weight class. I proved many times I could best
him in all categories whether skill, strength, or endurance. Yet I did not
recognize that doing so would only bring more problems.
He was the only puny one in the bunch. The
other three: older and much bigger. And so, it became a routine to pit a fight
between the youngest and me. If he lost, the other three would jump in. More
often than not, I purposely endured the lesser of the two beatings.
It was less complicated to just stay on my
side of the neighborhood. But we still had to share a bus stop every morning. With
Mamaw walking with me every day, her presence was enough to keep them in check.
It may have made me look weak, but I cared little if it meant a peaceful
transit to school.
She brought much balance to our home.
But that balance was disrupted when, for whatever reason, a sharp
disagreement ensued between her and my mother. I care not to speculate on what
the trouble was. All I know is it was horrible to watch two grown people that
my sister and I both adored snarl, bark, and chomp at each other like mad dogs.
It was clear that their
conflict would not end well as a final notice came: She would have to go
live with my uncle. As heartbreaking as the whole scene was, I accepted the
difficult decision my father faced. He put the needs of my mother/his wife
and the nucleus of our family first. That was a hard thing for Mamaw to accept.
Yet to assume that my dad did not feel conflicted would be naïve.
As we pulled up, she pleaded with him a moment
longer before accepting that this was inevitable. All she had with her was
a single suitcase. She came to live with us with not much more than the clothes
on her back. She grabbed what she had, said a few more words, and exited the
vehicle. I never even moved to the front seat as we drove off into the night.
To say things changed in our once warm,
well-kept home would be an understatement. My sister and I missed her
contributions. With both parents working, keeping up with just the routine
chores proved challenging.
I missed her at the bus stop. The
bullies around the corner became empowered by her absence. Waking up in the
morning to go to school became a dreaded routine, knowing they waited to
surround me, growl at me, and to make sure I felt threatened and scared.
With every non-violent defensive
action, they grew more emboldened. My parents talked to their parents. And I got
pushed around for it. They brought attention to the bus driver, and punishment
awaited. They talked to the school. Again, things escalated. The county
constable paid them a visit, and still: No change.
When my dad decided enough was enough, he
grabbed his shotgun and stuck it in his truck rack. Back then, you could still
have a visible gun rack in the back window.
To say he was angry would be an
understatement. I'm not sure what his capability may have been, but he seemed
ready and willing to send a message.
We all loaded up in the truck and before we
got to the main street, he cut the engine.
"Now, get out."
I ambled to my stop and looked just to my
right and there they all four stood. Once they saw me, the look on their face
suggested that it was showtime. Just the thought of their pleasure in torturing
me was frightening.
Right on queue, they walked. I didn't
move, but every muscle in my body tensed. As they approached, I found myself
encircled in a bully prison which was their customary method.
They didn't notice the truck at first. I'm
not sure exactly who did. It may have been me looking back as if to affirm to
my dad I had not exaggerated my situation. He had a front-row seat to witness
the whole scene.
Once they realized that the setup was on,
their confusion faded to fear as they noticed the shotgun in the rack. The
tinge of concern was clear on the oldest one's face. With a slow and
careful pace, they all turned around and went straight back from whence
they came.
Though the choice seemed a bit lame, it beat
the alternative as I then made it a habit to walk to the bus stop with the
Pentecostal kids. I would arrive early at their house and their sweet little
Vietnamese mother would offer me an omelet for breakfast. Her kind gesture
puzzled me because I knew the father was a strict disciplinarian and an
intimidating man. I didn’t expect such consideration from a place with such an
austere cornerstone. I maintained my boundaries because I didn't want to be the
one to cross a line and be labeled as the bad influence kid. I’m not sure why
it struck me as strange that they were such energetic morning people.
Such vigor was infectious. The positive boost did me well. And I knew walking
with them would lend protection my way.
As the months rolled on, the bully brothers
lost interest. They got bored. Their charming little sister about my age
took favor toward me. This helped improve my situation. For a few weeks, I
considered her my girlfriend and the brothers approved. The war was over and
there was peace in the land.
As school ended and Summer began, I found
myself excited about the prospect of spending time in the city. Mamaw was now
living in The Village Apartments where she was close to my aunt, uncle, and all
my cousins. There were plenty of kids in the area where we played games of
full contact football (no pads) all day. There was never a final score. I was relieved to be out of the woods for a
while. Even if I found myself among a diverse group of less fortunate kids, I
liked it. I fit in better with them than I did the country. That's why the
bully brothers often referred to me as "City Boy".
But more exciting than any of that was
the new, revolutionary concept in music that had developed just two summers before.
Mamaw had cable television and that meant copious amounts of MTV. My small record
collection had grown to include artists such as Culture Club, The Go-Gos, Quiet
Riot, and plenty of Hall and Oates. It was one thing to imagine myself as part
of the performance or what they may look like performing, but it was another to
see it. And now the world could put face to song without ever leaving the
living room couch.
I took no time figuring out which
channel was which. I kept with my usual morning routine of The Bozo Show (which
I refused to miss), but afterwards I would absorb myself in hours artistic
visual performances by REO Speedwagon, Pat Benatar, The Police, Michael
Jackson, Men At Work, Duran Duran, Prince, and so on. The golden age of eighties
music had arrived.
As any God-fearing, responsible
grandmother would, she often made me get up off the couch and go find
something to get into. She had housekeeping to do besides keeping with her
routine of watching The Price is Right and As The World Turns.
Keeping busy and entertained was never a real
big problem. The whole of The Village Apartments was ours to explore. We would
even venture outside its fences from time to time for the occasional run to the
local convenient store for snacks, candy, drinks, or to pick up a pack of
cigarettes for an adult. It didn’t matter the adult. We had a lot of freedom
and never perceived to be in danger.
But school would start back eventually and
that meant back out to the country I would go. Now at ten years old, new
challenges awaited. My parents had to face the fact I would come home to an
empty house after school and I would have to fix my own snacks, get my
homework done without supervision, and keep myself occupied until one or the
other got there.
As summer faded into fall, the days became
shorter. With both parents miles away in Jackson and having to battle
interstate traffic every day, it would only grow darker as the weather grew
colder.
This became a lonely and unhappy deal. I
wanted Mamaw back. I slowly hated where I was. We moved to the country to
experience the freedoms it afforded and yet I felt confined and isolated.
Cable television was not available. I had the
standard four channels to choose from and if I didn't like the programming; I
was out of luck. I could spend a little time with the Pentecostal kids, but
they had an early evening routine which left me with another hour or two by
myself.
As the sky turned dark, the empty house took
on a creepy character. Even my dog would get alarmed as he would occasionally
gaze toward the front door growling and shaking with concern. This did nothing
but convince me that something sinister waited just beyond out in the dark.
Christmas break would grant some relief
in the form of two weeks in the city. I got the Atari I had wanted from
Santa that year which kept me somewhat occupied through the following spring.
But even that got old after a while.
For reasons I don't recall, we became a one
vehicle family. Mom, dad, and my sister would have to leave the house even
earlier than before, meaning the walk to the bus stop got lonelier as I became
the last one to leave the house to lock things up. The stress level of having
to coordinate a carpool around a drop off, then two places of employment with
varying work hours was becoming an overwhelming challenge to my parents. On
days that my dad would have to work late, it was imperative I grabbed a
sandwich or something as that would be all the time there would be for supper.
My mom would have to come home, grab me, then turn around and go pick up my dad
from work.
One pivotal evening changed everything. With
an angry thrust, he tossed his briefcase into the car while jumping in.
"I quit!"
"You did what?!" my mother replied
with deep concern.
“I was looking for a job when I found this
one! I don‘t need this crap anymore! I'm better than this!”
The problem had been building for some time.
His boss sounded like a real sociopath. One of those who found it
impossible to acknowledge and accept the reasonable limitations of those
working for him. We’ve all met the kind. Totally devoid of empathy, they
will keep striking at a vulnerable target until they have nearly destroyed a
life. Whoever this boss was, he nearly succeeded.
My dad was right in recognizing his
own value. He was right in not allowing himself to be the target of a
weak-minded narcissist any longer. But concealed to the rest of us, especially
my sister and I, we were all about to pay a price for it.
A new and better opportunity did not come
knocking on our door. With big promises of future prosperity, my dad soon found
himself in fast food management as a new chain of fried chicken and biscuits
opened up all around the city. And a difficult schedule to coordinate
only got more complicated. Besides being left home late in the day, my mom now
had to get my sister and I up from our sleep late at night to go pick up my father
from work. We would sit outside waiting for another half hour to an hour as he
closed his store.
As we all grew exhausted by doing everything
possible to cling to the home and life we had built, it became clear we
only stalled the inevitable. The eventual happened in the early summer of 1984
when my mom came through the door late one evening with big tears in her eyes
and told me, "We have to move."
With all my fussing about
cleaning the lot, chopping weeds, and dragging limbs: I
hated every bit. When my dad thrust a paint brush into my hand, I
complained. Forced against my will I was to work like everyone else.
But as my mother uttered those words, I looked around at a home I helped
make and for the first time in the almost two years we had been there; I was
proud of it. And now it was being taken away from me. The thing that even I had
worked for was now going away and I grieved its loss.
My parents were quick to realize that the
moving out process might be too much for me to take. So they sent me away to
Stephens, Arkansas for a two-week visit with my aunt, uncle, and cousins on my
mother's side.
It was a fond place during the fall as I spent the
week of Thanksgiving break almost every year learning the sport and art of deer
hunting. With just a .20 gauge single barrel shotgun I was always eager to
get to a stand myself for an opportunity to bag my first ever buck
This visit was different. It had nothing to do
with my late fall/early winter nostalgia. This was summer. My parents were
dropping me off for an extended visit. By myself.
My aunt and uncle had become devoutly religious.
Everything endured the careful eye of scrutiny. Country music was okay.
Southern gospel was even better. But anything heavy was off limits. That seemed
to be about the only targeted vice as there just didn't seem to be much
exposure out here in this middle-of-nowhere-town.
Aunt Brenda persuaded me to spend my time
outside with other kids until I got popped between the eyes by a stray rock in
a dirt clod fight. She had to call my mom with the first words rolling off her
tongue being "Now don't panic", which would have been a great
accomplishment considering the emotional weight we were all carrying.
All it took was a couple of butterfly
bandages and I was on my way. After that, I preferred to stay in and watch
television even though it was forbidden to do so.
We spent a lot of time in their small-town
church which I enjoyed. Part of the packaged deal was summer camp with the
youth group up in the Ozark mountains for a week. It turned out to be a very
welcoming getaway.
But it was all ending and I couldn't
wait to get home wherever that may be. My parents would not be the ones to come
get me as we would all pack up and head to Clinton, Mississippi for our
annual family reunion.
As expected, a running, bawling mother whom I
was just as happy to see greeted me. It felt good to be back in the land
of Yazoo clay.
After the usual fanfare at family gatherings
of eating, visiting, throwing frisbees, and card games, it was time to get home
and unpack. I can’t understate my shock and surprise to find out that the roof over
our head would be within the compound of The Village Apartments; The same low-income
housing project that welcomed the expulsion of my Mamaw just months
earlier.
We had come full circle riches to rags. We
lost everything but the furniture and the clothes on our backs. And to this day
I wonder if this was some divine comeuppance for the way we dismissed Mamaw
from our household. And now that I would see a lot more of her, it strikes
me in retrospect that her presence was far more purposeful than I could
have imagined.
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