Sometimes it's the simple things that really shake me up. Like walking. Walking led me up the path with my family to stand on top of a twelve thousand foot peak over Berthoud pass. Walking led me to take that breath of crisp mountain air, to close my eyes and feel the wind whipping by me as I leaned into it.It was that day of walking that awoke the part of me that feels a desire for vast, empty places. For deserts and mountains, intense heat and bitter cold. It was that day of walking that brought me back to climbing, back to the one passion that has consumed so much of my life.
It was that days walk that made me remember to breath,
Monday, September 20, 2010
Monday, August 16, 2010
Joanne
“You need to understand, before you see her, that she is in very serious condition, and that things are not looking good.” The doctor spoke very softly, but very firmly to me in the waiting room of the Kaiser Hospital in Fontana, California. “We need to discuss where she was, and who she was with. Witnesses say she was dropped off at the front door of the E.R. and left there. Any information you can provide will be very helpful.”
I new nothing. I only knew that our last words had been in anger, and that when I had left two days earlier, she had plans to go to a party with some old friends, just to piss me off. As was common for Joanne and I, ugly words passed for goodbyes. The nature of our relationship was one that included constant bickering and frequently loud arguments that resulted in one of us going away for days at a time.
Walking into the hospital room, the first thing I saw was the expression on her fathers face. The look of worry and anguish hit me hard, and the fierce hug he delivered was further evidence that the usually reserved man was shaken. Obviously very worried for his only daughter, he still took the time to ask how I was and what I knew.
I knew nothing. Coming home on Sunday night, I decided to swing by her mothers place in Upland to say hi and see if she needed anything. I always enjoyed the sound of her thick Ecuadoriana accent, and the way she called me son, pronounced “song”. Walking in the front door I was greeted by the boys, Ray and Robert, jumping into my arms.
“What are you guys doing here?” I asked.
“Mommy’s sick” they said in unison, as the twins would so often do.
“Go play” I told them, now growing concerned. I didn’t like they way they walked, rather than ran away. Usually they were very energetic and playful.
Walking into the kitchen I was met by Joanne’s’ mother speaking into the phone in a way that told me she was talking to one of her sons who was stationed in Korea with the United States Marine Corps. When she cut the call short to talk to me, I knew things were VERY bad.
“Oh song…where have ju been?” she asked as she rushed to hug me. “ju must go. She needs you.”
“What’s happened, where is she?” I asked
“Go to the hospital. I’ll be there with the babies soon.”
As her father walked out muttering something about leaving us alone, I saw for the first time my eighteen year old fiancé, lying on a hospital bed unconscious and wound up in something like a spider web of tubing and wires. Reaching to touch her hand I started babbling something incoherent, even to my own ears. What was happening here and what could I do to fix it? Who did this and where could I find them? What would I do without her?
Moments after I sat down, Joanne started to shake, and machines started screaming. Within seconds the room filled with doctors and nurses, all busy doing various tasks that my mind couldn’t keep up with as one set of hands began moving me out of the room. As I entered the hallway and stepped away from the noise I was met by her mother and father who wanted to know what was going on.
I knew nothing. My mind raced to just a few months before, in this same hospital, where we had come when she started having strange stomach pains. Six months pregnant and concerned, she had told me that she needed to go to the E.R. In this same hospital our baby had died.
“We have managed to stabilize her, but I’m afraid the damage to her brain is irreparable. We might be able to keep her alive using artificial means, but she will probably never recover any significant brain activity.” The doctor told us in the same quiet but steady voice that he had used with me earlier. “I would recommend you say your goodbyes now, and then talk about what she would want. Do you guys know what she would want?”
I knew nothing. I recalled how alive she always seemed. How passionate and determined to change her own world. Even when confronted with the deaths of others, we never spoke of our own.
The decision to pull the plug took only a few moments for her parents and I. All of us were in shock but we knew that keeping her alive would do her no justice. Joanne’s mother was the strong one of the three of us, strengthened by her firm belief in God. Walking into the room where their daughter, my love, lay as only an empty shell of the fiery, spirited, beautiful girl we all knew, we wept openly as we said our goodbyes. We chose not to bring the boys in, but we all took turns sitting with them while Joanne’s oldest and youngest brothers both went in to see their sister for the last time.
And then, for quite some time, I was nothing.
I new nothing. I only knew that our last words had been in anger, and that when I had left two days earlier, she had plans to go to a party with some old friends, just to piss me off. As was common for Joanne and I, ugly words passed for goodbyes. The nature of our relationship was one that included constant bickering and frequently loud arguments that resulted in one of us going away for days at a time.
Walking into the hospital room, the first thing I saw was the expression on her fathers face. The look of worry and anguish hit me hard, and the fierce hug he delivered was further evidence that the usually reserved man was shaken. Obviously very worried for his only daughter, he still took the time to ask how I was and what I knew.
I knew nothing. Coming home on Sunday night, I decided to swing by her mothers place in Upland to say hi and see if she needed anything. I always enjoyed the sound of her thick Ecuadoriana accent, and the way she called me son, pronounced “song”. Walking in the front door I was greeted by the boys, Ray and Robert, jumping into my arms.
“What are you guys doing here?” I asked.
“Mommy’s sick” they said in unison, as the twins would so often do.
“Go play” I told them, now growing concerned. I didn’t like they way they walked, rather than ran away. Usually they were very energetic and playful.
Walking into the kitchen I was met by Joanne’s’ mother speaking into the phone in a way that told me she was talking to one of her sons who was stationed in Korea with the United States Marine Corps. When she cut the call short to talk to me, I knew things were VERY bad.
“Oh song…where have ju been?” she asked as she rushed to hug me. “ju must go. She needs you.”
“What’s happened, where is she?” I asked
“Go to the hospital. I’ll be there with the babies soon.”
As her father walked out muttering something about leaving us alone, I saw for the first time my eighteen year old fiancé, lying on a hospital bed unconscious and wound up in something like a spider web of tubing and wires. Reaching to touch her hand I started babbling something incoherent, even to my own ears. What was happening here and what could I do to fix it? Who did this and where could I find them? What would I do without her?
Moments after I sat down, Joanne started to shake, and machines started screaming. Within seconds the room filled with doctors and nurses, all busy doing various tasks that my mind couldn’t keep up with as one set of hands began moving me out of the room. As I entered the hallway and stepped away from the noise I was met by her mother and father who wanted to know what was going on.
I knew nothing. My mind raced to just a few months before, in this same hospital, where we had come when she started having strange stomach pains. Six months pregnant and concerned, she had told me that she needed to go to the E.R. In this same hospital our baby had died.
“We have managed to stabilize her, but I’m afraid the damage to her brain is irreparable. We might be able to keep her alive using artificial means, but she will probably never recover any significant brain activity.” The doctor told us in the same quiet but steady voice that he had used with me earlier. “I would recommend you say your goodbyes now, and then talk about what she would want. Do you guys know what she would want?”
I knew nothing. I recalled how alive she always seemed. How passionate and determined to change her own world. Even when confronted with the deaths of others, we never spoke of our own.
The decision to pull the plug took only a few moments for her parents and I. All of us were in shock but we knew that keeping her alive would do her no justice. Joanne’s mother was the strong one of the three of us, strengthened by her firm belief in God. Walking into the room where their daughter, my love, lay as only an empty shell of the fiery, spirited, beautiful girl we all knew, we wept openly as we said our goodbyes. We chose not to bring the boys in, but we all took turns sitting with them while Joanne’s oldest and youngest brothers both went in to see their sister for the last time.
And then, for quite some time, I was nothing.
Friday, August 13, 2010
First time in juvie
My whole life had been leading up to this. As far back as I could remember, my brother and I had talked of becoming bad men and what we would do when we eventually landed behind bars. Looking back, I can’t even remember what I was arrested for in the first place.
While nearly all of the local police knew me by first name, most of them referred to me as “Mr. Tuleja” whenever addressing me in public. I never understood why.
“Well, Mr. Tuleja, I’m afraid your parents have decided not to come get you. In fact, they asked that you be taken down to the juvenile hall.” The officer yelled to me from down the hall as I sat, still handcuffed in the holding cell. “Looks like you and I will be taking a ride to Downey!”
After a couple hours of paperwork, fingerprinting, driving, more paperwork and more fingerprinting, I was finally processed into Los Padrinos Juvenile hall. Sitting inside a cell, waiting to be moved to my unit, I was afforded a few more hours with my thoughts. Scared and uncertain, I began formulating my plan. As a small white kid, I was surely going to be targeted by some of the bigger guys as someone to screw with, which made my first action obvious. I had to do something that would make it very clear that I was not someone who should be bothered, and that, as everyone knew, was to beat the hell out of the biggest guy in the room. Well now, I understood the logic here, but what could I do to really stand out?
The sound of jingling keys interrupted my thoughts, as a guard opened my cell and mad a sad attempt at pronouncing my last name. “toolee….um…tulayha??”
I stood without saying a word, learning years earlier that trying to teach people to pronounce my last name was an exercise in frustration.
“Hmm….this should be interesting! Says here, you gonna play with the big boys!”
Not sure how to take this, I continued my silence as I followed him down through a labyrinth of hallways to an outdoor courtyard where several buildings were lined up in a row. Walking to the farthest one, we entered and I immediately saw what he meant by “big boys”. Every guy in here was much larger and obviously older than I was. This was going to suck.
We had arrived at lunchtime when everyone was in the dining hall which was one of the few occasions where everyone was out of their cell at the same time. Looking around the room, I quickly identified the biggest dude in the room and began to smile. Much larger than any other person in the room, he would help me make a nasty reputation for myself quickly. As I began running toward him I realized that attacking the biggest, baddest guy in the hall would make me a tough guy, but attacking this guard would make me a legend.
While nearly all of the local police knew me by first name, most of them referred to me as “Mr. Tuleja” whenever addressing me in public. I never understood why.
“Well, Mr. Tuleja, I’m afraid your parents have decided not to come get you. In fact, they asked that you be taken down to the juvenile hall.” The officer yelled to me from down the hall as I sat, still handcuffed in the holding cell. “Looks like you and I will be taking a ride to Downey!”
After a couple hours of paperwork, fingerprinting, driving, more paperwork and more fingerprinting, I was finally processed into Los Padrinos Juvenile hall. Sitting inside a cell, waiting to be moved to my unit, I was afforded a few more hours with my thoughts. Scared and uncertain, I began formulating my plan. As a small white kid, I was surely going to be targeted by some of the bigger guys as someone to screw with, which made my first action obvious. I had to do something that would make it very clear that I was not someone who should be bothered, and that, as everyone knew, was to beat the hell out of the biggest guy in the room. Well now, I understood the logic here, but what could I do to really stand out?
The sound of jingling keys interrupted my thoughts, as a guard opened my cell and mad a sad attempt at pronouncing my last name. “toolee….um…tulayha??”
I stood without saying a word, learning years earlier that trying to teach people to pronounce my last name was an exercise in frustration.
“Hmm….this should be interesting! Says here, you gonna play with the big boys!”
Not sure how to take this, I continued my silence as I followed him down through a labyrinth of hallways to an outdoor courtyard where several buildings were lined up in a row. Walking to the farthest one, we entered and I immediately saw what he meant by “big boys”. Every guy in here was much larger and obviously older than I was. This was going to suck.
We had arrived at lunchtime when everyone was in the dining hall which was one of the few occasions where everyone was out of their cell at the same time. Looking around the room, I quickly identified the biggest dude in the room and began to smile. Much larger than any other person in the room, he would help me make a nasty reputation for myself quickly. As I began running toward him I realized that attacking the biggest, baddest guy in the hall would make me a tough guy, but attacking this guard would make me a legend.
Tuesday, August 10, 2010
My rock bottom
Authors note;
This incident happened many years ago during a very dark time for me, and proved to be a pivot upon which my whole life turned around. I wrote it in the present tense simply as an exercise
Staring down at the needle, I hesitate before it enters my arm. For some reason the tourniquet around my bicep is driving me crazy and I just can’t do it. That damned rubber band seems to symbolize the filthy act I am about to perform and somehow makes it painfully obvious how low I am about to sink. Looking around the dark basement room of some stranger’s house, I am glad to be alone. Hell, I don’t even remember how I got here or who I came with. I’m not really sure where “here” is, actually, or how many days I have been awake in this dungeon like maze of 60’s era shag carpet and smoke filled rooms.
Setting the hypodermic needle full of meth to the side, I pull the .38 snub nosed revolver I have been carrying around out of my waistband, and put the barrel in my mouth. The cold metal clinks against my front teeth as I bite down on the site. Oddly, the idea of closing my mouth around it repulses me, so I simply bite down like a man smoking a cigar. The thought of someone finding me with my lips wrapped around anything is, for some reason, more offensive than what is about to happen.
Now, do I point it up, or straight back? I think up will direct the bullet where it needs to go. With my right thumb I slowly pull the hammer back on my pistol and as I do, the details of the world around me suddenly begins to stand out. From the cold, vodka like taste of the gun in my mouth, to the unbelievably loud click of the hammer locking back that I'm sure can be heard for miles around, I am shocked at how my senses come vibrantly to life. Suddenly I can see the filthy stains on the carpet and drapes. I can hear the moaning of a couple upstairs fucking. I can feel the faint breeze gliding across my skin from a small oscillating fan across the room. And I can sense the barron, lifelessness of the room around me, as though everyone has decided to clear out and give me some privacy in my most intimate of moments. More than any other thing, I can feel the beating of my heart and the restriction of blood being caused by the tourniquet that I, like an idiot, didn't take off.
OK, now what? Just pull the trigger and fall right here? Maybe I should move to some place away from all the drug paraphernalia. I’d hate to have peoples last memories of me be the sight of my faceless body surrounded by all kinds of needles and spoons and shit….Come to think of it, I really should take this fucking rubber band off my arm..…I sure as Hell don’t want my last moments to be spent thinking about how I’ll be remembered as a junkie. SHIT!!!
Pulling the pistol from my mouth, and carefully dropping the hammer, I set it down. Working to untie the tourniquet I find myself cursing this stupid piece of rubber. Damn, I must have tied it wrong. Maybe I should have paid more attention when I was watching everyone else do it. Pulling the knife from my pocket I cut it loose and watch as it falls to the ground. God damned thing, if it wasn't for that 50 cent piece of crap I would be dead alread…….
Panic. Adrenaline rushes through me and my hands begin to shake. Running to the bathroom I barely make it before I throw up what little is in my stomach and then begin to dry heave. What the hell just happened and what was I just thinking?? Standing up I notice that my vision is still very sharp, as are the rest of my senses and I immediately make up my mind.
Fuck this, I’m done. Fuck these people, fuck this neighborhood and fuck these drugs. I’m out.
This incident happened many years ago during a very dark time for me, and proved to be a pivot upon which my whole life turned around. I wrote it in the present tense simply as an exercise
Staring down at the needle, I hesitate before it enters my arm. For some reason the tourniquet around my bicep is driving me crazy and I just can’t do it. That damned rubber band seems to symbolize the filthy act I am about to perform and somehow makes it painfully obvious how low I am about to sink. Looking around the dark basement room of some stranger’s house, I am glad to be alone. Hell, I don’t even remember how I got here or who I came with. I’m not really sure where “here” is, actually, or how many days I have been awake in this dungeon like maze of 60’s era shag carpet and smoke filled rooms.
Setting the hypodermic needle full of meth to the side, I pull the .38 snub nosed revolver I have been carrying around out of my waistband, and put the barrel in my mouth. The cold metal clinks against my front teeth as I bite down on the site. Oddly, the idea of closing my mouth around it repulses me, so I simply bite down like a man smoking a cigar. The thought of someone finding me with my lips wrapped around anything is, for some reason, more offensive than what is about to happen.
Now, do I point it up, or straight back? I think up will direct the bullet where it needs to go. With my right thumb I slowly pull the hammer back on my pistol and as I do, the details of the world around me suddenly begins to stand out. From the cold, vodka like taste of the gun in my mouth, to the unbelievably loud click of the hammer locking back that I'm sure can be heard for miles around, I am shocked at how my senses come vibrantly to life. Suddenly I can see the filthy stains on the carpet and drapes. I can hear the moaning of a couple upstairs fucking. I can feel the faint breeze gliding across my skin from a small oscillating fan across the room. And I can sense the barron, lifelessness of the room around me, as though everyone has decided to clear out and give me some privacy in my most intimate of moments. More than any other thing, I can feel the beating of my heart and the restriction of blood being caused by the tourniquet that I, like an idiot, didn't take off.
OK, now what? Just pull the trigger and fall right here? Maybe I should move to some place away from all the drug paraphernalia. I’d hate to have peoples last memories of me be the sight of my faceless body surrounded by all kinds of needles and spoons and shit….Come to think of it, I really should take this fucking rubber band off my arm..…I sure as Hell don’t want my last moments to be spent thinking about how I’ll be remembered as a junkie. SHIT!!!
Pulling the pistol from my mouth, and carefully dropping the hammer, I set it down. Working to untie the tourniquet I find myself cursing this stupid piece of rubber. Damn, I must have tied it wrong. Maybe I should have paid more attention when I was watching everyone else do it. Pulling the knife from my pocket I cut it loose and watch as it falls to the ground. God damned thing, if it wasn't for that 50 cent piece of crap I would be dead alread…….
Panic. Adrenaline rushes through me and my hands begin to shake. Running to the bathroom I barely make it before I throw up what little is in my stomach and then begin to dry heave. What the hell just happened and what was I just thinking?? Standing up I notice that my vision is still very sharp, as are the rest of my senses and I immediately make up my mind.
Fuck this, I’m done. Fuck these people, fuck this neighborhood and fuck these drugs. I’m out.
Friday, August 6, 2010
The first time I won a fight
The warm, California sun shone in my eyes when I realised that we were on a hill. As things were not going very well for me up to this point, I figured I should give it a try. Stepping little by little in a small circle, I maneuvered myself up the hill. By placing my back to the sun I had also, unfortunately for him put it directly in his eyes as he was forced to look upward, just a little, to face me. I could tell immediately that my scheme had worked as he squinted into the sunlight and tipped his head downward a little. He had a blind spot to his left caused by our new position, and I took full advantage of it. With a quick left jab to distract him further, I delivered a right hook with every ounce of power I possessed. He fell like a rock.
Standing over the first person I had ever dropped, I thought very hard about what I had just done as I waited for him to get back to his feet, which he did soon enough. Then, just as I had done the first time, I unknowingly followed the ancient advice of Sun Tzu's "Art of War" and placed myself on high ground, with the sun to my back. Adjusting to the light I once again saw his eyes work to focus on me as I delivered another punch, without even the benefit of a distraction, and watched as he reeled. Following quickly with a slurry of punches and kicks to his body and head I was admittedly shocked when he fell again, this time without getting up in any hurry.
Hearing him utter something about being done, I turned around and walked away as the crowd of kids engulfed me with pats on the back and words of praise for my previously unknown ability to fight. With every step I began walking taller, my chest puffing out a little more. Pride turned my walk into a swagger and for one moment I was a bad ass. I think I may have even looked at a couple pretty girls straight in the eye without my usual shyness. Yep, I was a real hard case.
Then I saw his friends coming and I ran like a little girl.
Standing over the first person I had ever dropped, I thought very hard about what I had just done as I waited for him to get back to his feet, which he did soon enough. Then, just as I had done the first time, I unknowingly followed the ancient advice of Sun Tzu's "Art of War" and placed myself on high ground, with the sun to my back. Adjusting to the light I once again saw his eyes work to focus on me as I delivered another punch, without even the benefit of a distraction, and watched as he reeled. Following quickly with a slurry of punches and kicks to his body and head I was admittedly shocked when he fell again, this time without getting up in any hurry.
Hearing him utter something about being done, I turned around and walked away as the crowd of kids engulfed me with pats on the back and words of praise for my previously unknown ability to fight. With every step I began walking taller, my chest puffing out a little more. Pride turned my walk into a swagger and for one moment I was a bad ass. I think I may have even looked at a couple pretty girls straight in the eye without my usual shyness. Yep, I was a real hard case.
Then I saw his friends coming and I ran like a little girl.
Wednesday, August 4, 2010
I CAN FLY!!!!
Even though I knew this was a day I would always remember, this one started like many others before. My flight instructor, Dennis Moss, and I climbed into the Remos 408RA and taxied toward runway 33 under early morning, blue, windless skies. After the run-up, a series of tests performed to make sure all systems were safe and operational before leaving the safety of the ground, I pushed the talk button of the radio and announced, "Erie traffic, Remos four-zero-eight-Romeo-Alpha is taking the active runway three-three, we'll be staying in the pattern".
Pushing the throttle in, I felt my anxiety fade as the plane sped up and I lifted off from the ground. My hands and feet began doing what I spent months practicing and the weather couldn’t have been better. As I began circling the airport for my first "touch and go" (the practice of landing and immediately taking off again) I found myself fully relaxing and enjoying the moment. Looking down, I could see that the grass had just been cut in the field below me and the tire tracks were still visible from the tractor. I also noticed that the hot air balloons were rising out of Boulder, rather than crowding near Erie as they often do on calm mornings.
The rest of the pattern went by and I continued to feel calm and in control. As I brought the plane down on final (the last few minutes before touching down), I had a very clear moment, just above the runway numbers, of total joy. Setting the plane down on the ground I set my flaps and pushed the throttle back in with a grin so wide it was nearly painful.
"Make another landing like that last one and come to a full stop, so I can climb out." Dennis says, indicating that he is pleased so far, and ready for me to fly solo. I watched my wife and son waving to me from the ground as I acknowledged him.
After another smooth landing, I pulled off of the runway and stopped the airplane where Dennis unbuckled his seatbelt, grabbed and signed the solo endorsement of my logbook and climbed out. "Just to show you how much I trust you, I'll leave my headsets in the plane!" He told me, and closed the door.
For the first time, I was alone in the cockpit of an airplane, and about to fly solo!! Taxiing to the runway, I found myself very aware of the total lack of fear that I felt. I knew that the weather was good, and I was capable.
Making my radio announcement I paused briefly, wondering if I should warn the local aviation community that I was heading out by myself for the first time, but decided against it for no reason other than I wanted to hurry up and fly!
Pushing the throttle in, I remembered Dennis's words about how the plane would perform better without the extra person in it. Immediately I felt what he was talking about as it eased into the sky with power that I didn’t know it had. After a quick glance at my family and teacher, who for the first time waved to me from the ground, I looked at my instrument panel to find that I was ready to retract flaps much sooner than I was used to. Smiling like an idiot, I found myself at pattern altitude (the altitude that local traffic maintains when landing at the airport) before I even finished the crosswind leg of the pattern (this is the first turn after take off). Normally, I would spend nearly double that amount of time climbing!
Landing the plane was a dream, and the next three laps around the airport followed suit. After my final landing, I was greeted by my son's voice over the radio saying "Way to go Dad!" I think that radio call will live with me for the rest of my life.
Tuesday, August 3, 2010
The Beating
Authors note:
I never learned the reason for the following events, nor the identity of anyone involved.
I never saw them coming. I remember hearing the words “who’s the nigger now?” as pain exploded in the back of my head and the lights began to fade. Struggling to hold onto consciousness, I fell to my knees as the boys began to punch and kick me for what felt like forever. Trying to protect myself, I curled into a ball and covered whatever I could with my hands and arms. At some point, I remember fading into darkness for I don’t know how long, only to come around to the sensation of being simultaneously dragged and kicked. I remember realizing that I had no idea who these boys were, nor how many, but knowing that they were much older than me and that they were pulling me into an ally where things were about to get worse.
Fear and confusion flooded me, and I found myself upright and swinging wildly as I tried to make my way back to the street where I had at least some chance of a grown-up seeing us and putting a stop to this beating I was taking. I don’t know if I ever landed a single punch before I was brought back down again by what seemed like dozens of fists and a chorus of angry voices shouting things like “Fuckin white boy”, “gonna kill you” and “now who’s the nigger?’. I did manage to clutch to one boy as I fell, bringing him down with me and tried to use him as some sort of shield between me and his friends. This lasted only a very short time as he was much bigger than me and ended up sitting on my chest, raining punches down on my now unprotected face. Darkness again.
Laughter. I could hear laughter through the fog that seemed to cloud the whole world as rain began to fall on me. As the laughter became louder and clearer, I realized that it wasn’t rain I was feeling, but piss. The boys had apparently tired of beating me and decided to add this last insult before they left me alone. I lay there, covered in urine and bleeding for a long time before I could muster the strength to move.
I don’t recall much of the walk home, other than seeing a string of blood oozing out of my mouth and trying desperately to keep it from touching my skin or clothes. I think this blood represented one last thing I could still control in a world that suddenly made no sense to my eight year old mind. The devastation I felt when that blood ran down my shirt was nearly crippling, and I recall a sense of panic hitting me almost as violently as the group of boys had a few moments before. To this day I still remember clearly the shame I felt as I snuck into my bathroom and showered before anyone could see me, and how no matter how much or how hard I scrubbed, I could still feel the filth on my skin, burning like acid, and I remember crying, silently and shamefully, as I understood for the first time in my life, what it meant to hate.
I never learned the reason for the following events, nor the identity of anyone involved.
I never saw them coming. I remember hearing the words “who’s the nigger now?” as pain exploded in the back of my head and the lights began to fade. Struggling to hold onto consciousness, I fell to my knees as the boys began to punch and kick me for what felt like forever. Trying to protect myself, I curled into a ball and covered whatever I could with my hands and arms. At some point, I remember fading into darkness for I don’t know how long, only to come around to the sensation of being simultaneously dragged and kicked. I remember realizing that I had no idea who these boys were, nor how many, but knowing that they were much older than me and that they were pulling me into an ally where things were about to get worse.
Fear and confusion flooded me, and I found myself upright and swinging wildly as I tried to make my way back to the street where I had at least some chance of a grown-up seeing us and putting a stop to this beating I was taking. I don’t know if I ever landed a single punch before I was brought back down again by what seemed like dozens of fists and a chorus of angry voices shouting things like “Fuckin white boy”, “gonna kill you” and “now who’s the nigger?’. I did manage to clutch to one boy as I fell, bringing him down with me and tried to use him as some sort of shield between me and his friends. This lasted only a very short time as he was much bigger than me and ended up sitting on my chest, raining punches down on my now unprotected face. Darkness again.
Laughter. I could hear laughter through the fog that seemed to cloud the whole world as rain began to fall on me. As the laughter became louder and clearer, I realized that it wasn’t rain I was feeling, but piss. The boys had apparently tired of beating me and decided to add this last insult before they left me alone. I lay there, covered in urine and bleeding for a long time before I could muster the strength to move.
I don’t recall much of the walk home, other than seeing a string of blood oozing out of my mouth and trying desperately to keep it from touching my skin or clothes. I think this blood represented one last thing I could still control in a world that suddenly made no sense to my eight year old mind. The devastation I felt when that blood ran down my shirt was nearly crippling, and I recall a sense of panic hitting me almost as violently as the group of boys had a few moments before. To this day I still remember clearly the shame I felt as I snuck into my bathroom and showered before anyone could see me, and how no matter how much or how hard I scrubbed, I could still feel the filth on my skin, burning like acid, and I remember crying, silently and shamefully, as I understood for the first time in my life, what it meant to hate.
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