Bullied (17 page)

“We are going to throw you off, first, and then we'll fight it out between us”.

“That’s not fair,” I protested. I resisted, but they grabbed me and threw me off the platform headfirst.

Going towards the ground headfirst was frightening but I blocked the ground with my left arm and immediately heard a snapping sound, then experienced pain like nothing I’d ever felt before. I laid there on the ground with my left arm throbbing, crying hysterically. Bernie and Jim came down the stairs and looked at my crooked left arm that had two bumps just below the skin. Soon, adults who were commenting on my fall off the platform surrounded me.

All of a sudden, a familiar face appeared in the crowd and immediately came to my side. He was the doctor to whom I delivered papers and I went to see because of my flat feet. He lived right across from the Boys Club, next to my friend, John. He was one of my heroes because, unlike most of the veterans who would never speak about the war, he told me about what he did in combat in the pacific islands. One day when I was in his office for an exam, I asked him,

“What did you do in the war?”

“I fought battles on a few small islands in the Pacific,” he said.

“Did you ever see any of the enemy?” I asked.

“Sure I did, plenty of times.”

“What happened?” I asked.

“A few of them used to try to surrender to me. I had a Thompson machine gun so I would just stitch them across the front, and that would be the end of it."

This was a really nice, but tough person, hard as a rock that resembled that famous actor Donald Niven, mustache and all, and I really liked him. Also standing in the group of about a dozen people surrounding me was a man wearing a badge that stated that he was a reporter from the Binghamton Press newspaper. I was in great pain, and holding my left arm against my chest with my right arm wrapped around it.

“Please, May I take a look at your arm, Patrick?”

“No, you are a foot doctor!” I shouted. I did not know it at the time but this exchange, and my comment, would appear in the Sunday Press the next day.

The whole group of people surrounding me laughed hysterically. I did not know what was so funny. The doctor also laughed, then said with a big grin,

“I am a real doctor too, I just specialize in feet,” he said.

That is good news to me because there is no one I trust more than this doctor is because he is like my heroes in the movies. I lifted my left arm, and he held it gently in both hands.

He said, “It is a compound fracture. Both bones in your arm are broken but you're lucky because the bones did not pierce the skin or we would have a lot of bleeding too.” The pain is so intense I cannot imagine anything worse.

Someone went to make a call on the public phone just outside the stadium, and soon an ambulance arrived to take me to the same hospital in which I was born. Then, because my Mom was still at work and they needed her permission before giving me any medication or pain relievers, I had to sit in the hospital waiting room enduring the pain for several hours. When Mom finally arrives at the hospital and gives her permission, they finally give me medicine that makes the pain less intense. After that, I have to endure more intense pain as a doctor pulls hard on the arm so both bones go back into place. I thought I had experienced pain before from many fights, but this took it to a new level. After that, they wrapped the arm with some wet bandages that would harden into a cast.

When I was at the hospital, the doctors and nurses asked me several times how I broke my arm. I told them, "I fell off the band platform.” For some reason, they acted as if they did not believe me. I did not tell anyone the truth about how it really happened. This sort of personal response to questions from adults seems normal to me. What difference did it make? It will not do me any good to tell them what really happened because anything they say or do will not be in my best interests. Adults always seem to have an unknown secret agenda that favors their own interests when they question me about anything, and with only a few exceptions, I do not trust them.

A few days after I got back from the hospital and was on my morning walk to school, I met Bernie and Jim walking together. Bernie, who seemed a little nervous because he was rubbing his two hands together, said,

“Hey, Pat, how are you?”

“Pretty good,” I replied.

“Look at that cast”, Jim said. “It sure is a big one, and it goes all the way up your arm!”

“Yeah, it is heavy, too.” I said.

“How long do you have to wear it?” asked Bernie?

“At least three months,” I said.

Nervously clearing his throat while looking at Bernie, Jim said, “Look Pat, we really wanted to let you know that we appreciate you not telling on us for, you know, for what happened at the stadium”

“Yeah, Pat, I appreciate it too,” said Bernie. “Thanks.”

“That’s OK, guys,” I said. I was very surprised that these two people, some of the toughest people I knew, were actually thanking me for not ratting them out. I did not think I had done anything special and I am glad this means we are still friends.

While wearing the cast, I notice that even though I hear constant insults with words as well as endure slaps and pushes, no one knocks me down and beats me up, now. The beatings were such a common occurrence for me at least three or four times a week that I was glad to have the cast on. In addition, I also learned in the last months of my wearing the cast, after they shortened it, how to use it as a weapon or block a punch. Yep, I guess the big kids cannot enhance their image if they beat up someone who only has one free arm.

However, I still wake with that stomach and chest pain every morning just because I will have to face the words, pushes, slaps and punches. I still spend a lot of time in my room working on getting my anger going rather than staying afraid. I also still deliver my papers six days a week for the money I need for movies, ice cream and books on fighting. Lately, though, I notice that I seem to be proficient in defending myself verbally against other people. Name-calling, unlike some, does not bother me too much because I am growing not to care what people think of me. If they like me, fine. If they do not like me, that is OK too. I just need to know who likes me and who does not.

I also use humor so people will leave me alone. Once I get a kid laughing about something, he will usually stop bullying. What is surprising me is that, lately, I can really feel a growing anger that really does often take the place of fear when someone intimidates me. I am glad for this even when that anger causes me to say provocative things to people that bully me verbally or physically. In addition, the Sisters still grab me by the hair, ears or the right arm frequently so my day is still full of physical assaults, cast or not.

Now we are getting close to the holidays again and I still have this cast on. My arm smells bad too because I cannot wash it. I am also skipping taking baths whenever I can get away with it so I smell bad all over and many people, especially the bullies, will stay away from me. I do like the holidays, though, because some of it is fun; but the part about having the whole family around is definitely not. Yes, I still love my Grandmother, Grandfather, Mother, her Sister Mary, my Sister, and my cousins Donna and Danny. As far as I am concerned, the rest of my family can go to hell.

Having this cast on my arm has been good in some ways because I have had time to focus on the best ways to handle a bully. I am still thinking about how to act when confronted and what to say. In addition, I continue to work on knowing what to look for when in a confrontation and, if it goes further, the physical tactics to use. I need to be very cold and calculating in order to have any chance of winning fights or “scuffles” with the bigger people.

“Scuffles”, are just shoving matches. Things are liable to end in a scuffle rather than a real fight if the bully understands I am ready to take him on and that he will definitely get hurt, even if he wins. Pain, to me, is just an unpleasant but normal part of everyday life that I have to endure to continue living. I guess that fearing pain, as they do, makes them cowards. My attitude now is that all bullies are cowards. I cannot imagine getting pleasure out of beating up someone smaller than I am, or anyone for any reason. I hate fighting and will never do it if there is any choice.

It is January and I am 15 years old this month. The two great things that are happening this month are finally getting the cast removed after six months. The second great event is my birthday and I can hardly wait for both events. That means, when I get the use of my left arm back, I can finally start working out again.

After I resume the exercises, I notice immediately that my left arm is a lot weaker than it was before I broke it. The chin-ups are definitely harder as well as when leaning against the wall pushing for dynamic tension. Since my left arm needs a lot of exercise, I found a number of arm exercises to do every day. The stomach pain is still there in the morning because I know what is ahead but now I also know how to make the pain go away.

When walking on the street and I see four adversaries coming the other way I know they will shove and punch me, I immediately get angry and do not feel the fear as I used to. So when passing on the sidewalk, one of the smaller guys in the gang hits me, I hit quickly hit him back then, if possible, hit the biggest person, which is usually the leader. This really surprises everyone in the group, especially the leader, and makes the smaller gang members back off later because the biggest person might get even with him later for causing him pain. My anger is certainly a good thing and I would rather feel it anytime rather than the overwhelming fear that dominated my life for years. What I did not know, at the time, is that the anger, under the peaceful surface, would stay with me for the rest of my life. That feeling of fear in humans is evidently there to cause them to retreat or, in some cases, use caution in a dangerous situation. By substituting anger for fear, I choose aggressive action in many situations instead of more cautious behavior.

I was still called a Fag, Queer and a lot of demeaning names but the only time I wanted to touch a another males sexual organs was when I was fighting and punching him in the balls. I learned to do that out of the Jujitsu book and that became an active strategy, when in a serious fight. Here I am, 15 years old, and I still do not know anything about what “making love” is or what men and women do together when they “have sex.” All I know is that I have heard these words but I do not know what they mean. If I did then I would be able to think about the real thing when trying to make my erection go away. I can hardly get the subject out of my mind these days and it may now be even a greater obsession than that regarding fighting. I have to find out about this and there has to be a way.

For years, I have been an active reader so I can fill some of the time I spend alone in my room. In order to read, I am a member of the Endicott Public Library, located in an old mansion, previously the home of George F Johnson, the founder of Endicott Johnson Shoe Company. This stately building with lots of columns and marble finishes is full of books to read, and even though I have never had a dog, I read many books about them. We only have one cat, named Scampy, but I would really like to have a dog someday. If I am ever going to learn about sex, I might also be able to find a book on it in the public library. One day on television I heard a news story about a controversial book about sex, written by an author named Alfred Kinsey. I went to my room and wrote down the authors name and the title of the book, “Sexual Behavior in the Human Male”.

I planned a trip to the library the next day. Arriving at the library in the afternoon, I first look up the library number for the book in the card file. This way I can look for the book in the aisles, by myself, based on its probable location, without anyone knowing for what I am searching. I found the book where it was supposed to be, and retreating to a secure corner, I flipped a number of pages until I found some pictures of nude male and female bodies. I knew this was the right book for me, and I was finally going to figure out what this “sex” thing was and what “making love” really meant.

Since I usually come to the library at about this time after school, when I check out a book, the person that helps me at the front desk is usually an attractive female with dark hair, a kind face and about seventeen years old. She always looks at my books, especially the ones on dogs and makes nice comments about my choices. The last time I was in the library, she said, “You always check out books on dogs. Do you have a dog?” When I told her, no, I did not have a dog; her face suddenly took on a sad expression as she finished stamping the book. Therefore, I said, “But I have a cat”, and she smiled. Walking downstairs with the Kinsey book, I wondered who was going to be at the counter this time. Because of my young age, would they let me take this book home?

From a distance, I look at the library checkout counter, and standing at the counter was the same young female that waited on me many times. I do not want to use her to check out this book because she knows me. Then, I thought, maybe someone that does not know me will not let me borrow this book because of its subject. No matter what, I have to get this book. Swallowing hard, I walked up to the checkout counter. When she saw me, she smiled and said, “Hi, how are you today? What do you have, another book on dogs?” I handed her the book and when she looked at the title, she got very quiet and her cheeks turned red. She was very quiet as she recorded my name on the card that was inside the book, stamped my membership card with the books return date and handed it to me. She did not smile at all and just looked at me with a concerned look. I could feel her watching me as I walked hurriedly towards the doorway and out of the library. As I was walking down the stairs, I said to myself, “Wow, I will finally figure this out!”

I took the book home and hid it under the mattress in my bedroom before going out to deliver papers. Rushing to get through the route as quickly as possible and arriving home, I found that my mother was already preparing dinner. She said, “Don’t run off now. Dinner is almost ready. Go wash your hands and get ready to eat.” When Mom, Lauren and I sat down for dinner that night, I thought dinner would never be over. Mom even had dessert, a cherry pie. Naturally, I could not say no to cherry pie.