It Stays With You for A Lifetime

 Part 2

The end of my senior year, our Block I sports awards.

Since my dad was an alcoholic, I discouraged my parents from attending. All I expected was to pick up my varsity letters in football and track. No biggie. I never dreamed I could be so wrong. What transpired was totally unexpected.

Ironically, or perhaps intentionally, I was seated at a table with my biology teacher, Mr. Dempster.

My sophomore year, I had a failing grade in his biology class. With my hearing loss, it was impossible for me to understand the unfamiliar biology vocabulary. This difficulty with understanding unfamiliar words was something I didn’t yet understand, nor did the adults involved in my life. 

Failing his subject, Mr. Dempster required me to attend after-school classes. Since I had made the varsity football team as a sophmore, I wasn’t suppose to miss after-school practice sessions. I had a choice, attend after-school biology or football. I wrongly chose football.

To make a long story short, caught doing the wrong thing, I was required to stop at Mr. Dempster’s house and apologize for skipping his after-school class. He was cool about it, and we seemed to kind of connect as student and teacher. But, I still miserably failed biology that year, and had to retake it the next semester.

So, back to the Block I sports awards.

I couldn’t hear. The awards came up, the recipients announced. All I could do was watch.

The award for Competitive Spirit came up… the people at my table indicated it was for me… and I got up to receive the award. Well, that was nice, I thought. I didn’t expect anything, but this was cool.

The next award, I totally expected another classmate to earn this, the Unsung Hero Award. It is one of the most prestigious sports awards at my school. This award represents everything about your character. It stays with you for life.

My name was announced. Again, I didn’t hear it. Mr. Dempster proudly looked at me and told me so. I was never more humbled, and speechless.

But, this story doesn’t end here. No.

One weekend later, and just before graduation, I was playing a parking-lot version of broomball. One of my opponents high-sticked me, and slashed a cut above my eye. Bleeding, we went to the nearest home, Josh’s. His father called my dad to come take me to the hospital for stitches.

While Josh and I waited on his porch for my dad, he explained his opinion. He told me that the only reason I was awarded the Unsung Hero Award, and not him, was because people felt sorry for me, because of my hearing loss.

I should explain… Josh finished quite high academically in our class, racking up numerous scholarships and recognitions.

And my one moment of glory…. despite Josh... ???

Well... thanks Terry... you were the best, the best of friends.

Bullies Again!

A bit of action on the river.

 This is a repost from 2 years ago. A little story about bullies. 

Lately there has been a lot of news about bullies. So I thought I would put up this true story of my own little journey thru that pleasant experience we like to call . . . "high school."

 

I Stood Alone

The evil ones lurked behind me on the one-mile walk to school, following at three or four paces back. I heard some giggling; turned around to see Raf and Jason, two kids from my gym class. They seem to be talking to each other, but I could not grasp the conversation and so, continued on my way.

Soon came a mumble, followed by silence, then more giggling. I turned around, "What’s up guys? Whatcha say?"

Looking at me quizzically, "Huh? We didn’t say anything."

So I continued the journey, but could hear more giggling. I decided not to respond. They got louder and louder until I could finally hear what it was they were saying.
"Jimmy is an asshole," over and over again, followed by more giggling and more snickering.

I told them to knock it off, but again they denied anything was happening.

I figured at some point I would have to deal with this, but I never counted on the evil ones to up the ante.

* * *

Junior High was rough. Everything was new to me. Having multiple teachers, as opposed to the one teacher in grade school, was a recipe for disaster. The amount of focus required for me to hear, under different circumstances for each class, was over-whelming. There was no special assistance then, no note-takers, no voice-interpreters, nor any affordable tutors.

So what’s a hard-of-hearing kid to do? A mainstreamed kid, one who could experience the world from only a hearing-impaired perspective. From age six to age thirteen I wore this box-like body-aid. It had scratches, dents, with this embarrassing brace to hold it to my chest. Somehow this device would stick with me for four more years. And by some miracle, it now sits on my fireplace mantle, still in working condition.

* * *

As I joined the sea of bodies flowing through the school hallways, weaving my way to the next class, I heard that giggling sound again. Then I heard the "asshole" part.

Why me, I thought. Just because of this damn cord running from my chest to my ear?

I forced Raf over to the lockers and said my piece. "You and me are gonna meet after school! Meet me at the fields!"

For some odd reason, I don’t to this day know why I said this next bit, but it was a ‘live or die’ situation for a desperate teenager.

"You can bring all your sassy friends, too! I’ll fight all of ’em, but I’ll only fight ’em one at a time!"

Raf was laughing hysterically. He couldn’t believe that I called out his entire gang. “It’s gonna be a feast,” he marveled.

I was scared. I was nervous. Bypassing the fields, I hurried straight home after school. Soon there-after, came a knock on the front door. It was Raf. Could he please, please, please, be here to apologize?

"Come on Jimmy," he sneered. "We got a play date, remember?"

It was one of those cold brisk autumn days. I never thought to grab a sweatshirt. I was shaking so hard from cold and fright, my bones rattled. The sight of me shivering must have made Raf’s wolfpack feel quite confident.

At the fields, a gang of eight formed a circle. I was bull-in-the-ring. Jason stepped in first. He started with a little shove, then I cut loose. A flurry of hard body shots and he was finished. I beat up two more lighties, then they all scattered, running for safety.

But, Raf, he was their alpha male. He could not run. Alone now, we faced off. After a few exchanges, I knocked him down, jumped on him and grabbed his head. Fueled on adrenaline, all my anger, and all my emotions wanted to destroy this coward, to lift his head up and slam it against the turf.

But I could not.

My mind raced from thought to thought; all of this hate, this poison bottled up inside, where did it come from? Would it ever stop? Would it consume me?

Meanwhile, the rest of Raf’s gang had alerted his older brother Joe. He arrived on the scene as I sat atop Raf’s chest, mulling over what to do next.

"When you’re done with him, let me know," Joe calmly stated, then went over to a rock wall to have a front row seat.

I thought it over. "Say uncle!"

Raf mumbled "uncle" as requested.

"No, that’s not loud enough. I couldn’t hear you. Scream it!"

And so he did. In tears, he cried out an "uncle" that echoed across the valley on that brisk autumn day; humiliated in front of his brother, a brother who would not save his sorry butt for what he did.

As it turned out, these were kids from my own neighborhood.

Betrayed by the kids I thought were my friends, the damage was done.

Lately there has been a lot of news about bullies. So I thought I would put up this true story of my own little journey thru that pleasant experience we like to call . . . "high school."

I Stood Alone

The evil ones lurked behind me on the one-mile walk to school, following at three or four paces back. I heard some giggling; turned around to see Raf and Jason, two kids from my gym class. They seem to be talking to each other, but I could not grasp the conversation and so, continued on my way.

Soon came a mumble, followed by silence, then more giggling. I turned around, "What’s up guys? Whatcha say?"

Looking at me quizzically, "Huh? We didn’t say anything."

So I continued the journey, but could hear more giggling. I decided not to respond. They got louder and louder until I could finally hear what it was they were saying.
"Jimmy is an asshole," over and over again, followed by more giggling and more snickering.

I told them to knock it off, but again they denied anything was happening.

I figured at some point I would have to deal with this, but I never counted on the evil ones to up the ante.

* * *

Junior High was rough. Everything was new to me. Having multiple teachers, as opposed to the one teacher in grade school, was a recipe for disaster. The amount of focus required for me to hear, under different circumstances for each class, was over-whelming. There was no special assistance then, no note-takers, no voice-interpreters, nor any affordable tutors.

So what’s a hard-of-hearing kid to do? A mainstreamed kid, one who could experience the world from only a hearing-impaired perspective. From age six to age thirteen I wore this box-like body-aid. It had scratches, dents, with this embarrassing brace to hold it to my chest. Somehow this device would stick with me for four more years. And by some miracle, it now sits on my fireplace mantle, still in working condition.

* * *

As I joined the sea of bodies flowing through the school hallways, weaving my way to the next class, I heard that giggling sound again. Then I heard the "asshole" part.

Why me, I thought. Just because of this damn cord running from my chest to my ear?

I forced Raf over to the lockers and said my piece. "You and me are gonna meet after school! Meet me at the fields!"

For some odd reason, I don’t to this day know why I said this next bit, but it was a ‘live or die’ situation for a desperate teenager.

"You can bring all your sassy friends, too! I’ll fight all of ’em, but I’ll only fight ’em one at a time!"

Raf was laughing hysterically. He couldn’t believe that I called out his entire gang. “It’s gonna be a feast,” he marveled.

I was scared. I was nervous. Bypassing the fields, I hurried straight home after school. Soon there-after, came a knock on the front door. It was Raf. Could he please, please, please, be here to apologize?

"Come on Jimmy," he sneered. "We got a play date, remember?"

It was one of those cold brisk autumn days. I never thought to grab a sweatshirt. I was shaking so hard from cold and fright, my bones rattled. The sight of me shivering must have made Raf’s wolfpack feel quite confident.

At the fields, a gang of eight formed a circle. I was bull-in-the-ring. Jason stepped in first. He started with a little shove, then I cut loose. A flurry of hard body shots and he was finished. I beat up two more lighties, then they all scattered, running for safety.

But, Raf, he was their alpha male. He could not run. Alone now, we faced off. After a few exchanges, I knocked him down, jumped on him and grabbed his head. Fueled on adrenaline, all my anger, and all my emotions wanted to destroy this coward, to lift his head up and slam it against the turf.

But I could not.

My mind raced from thought to thought; all of this hate, this poison bottled up inside, where did it come from? Would it ever stop? Would it consume me?

Meanwhile, the rest of Raf’s gang had alerted his older brother Joe. He arrived on the scene as I sat atop Raf’s chest, mulling over what to do next.

"When you’re done with him, let me know," Joe calmly stated, then went over to a rock wall to have a front row seat.

I thought it over. "Say uncle!"

Raf mumbled "uncle" as requested.

"No, that’s not loud enough. I couldn’t hear you. Scream it!"

And so he did. In tears, he cried out an "uncle" that echoed across the valley on that brisk autumn day; humiliated in front of his brother, a brother who would not save his sorry butt for what he did.

As it turned out, these were kids from my own neighborhood.

Betrayed by the kids I thought were my friends, the damage was done.