Bully

Every school has at least one. Our little country school had it’s as well. Dewhit was ours. Not because we wanted him, but because he lived in our community. Dewhit and I had our first run in, in the fourth grade. It was late Spring, afternoon recess, when boy’s attention turned to baseball, or second best choice - softball, which was what we were allowed to play at school. We were divided into teams and playing softball. I remember that it was my turn at bat after Dewhit. He’d been struck out, I approached home plate, and as he left the batter’s box, he lashed out and popped me one in the eye. I don’t remember being particularly hurt, or even much upset by this as Dewhit was known for his sudden outbursts.

I believe that I shook it off, after all, I was interested in was getting in my turn at bat, and I knew that we had to be in the final minutes of the recess period. After all this passage of time, that is not especially clear, but I do know that I went on to bat and actually got a hit and got on base before the bell rang to end the play period. The other thing I remember is the beautiful black shiner I was sporting by the time I got home.

When Dad got home, after dinner, I was quizzed about my new face decoration and promptly given my marching orders for the next day: find Dewhit, corner him, and beat the tar out of him. That was a tall order. Dewhit was well on his way toward being our elementary school tough guy, obviously preplanning his stay in the State Pen, a bully, volatile, and the most unfortunate kid in our school - whenever he was there.

Dewhit’s Dad was a drunk. His Mom was a drunk. Dewhit’s Dad beat his Mom when he got drunk, which was as often as possible. His Mom drank whenever she got beaten, and promptly beat up on Dewhit. Dewhit’s Dad filled in on Dewhit’s blank spaces (the white skin between the bruises) both when he was drunk and sober. Dewhit’s Mom, step-mom actually, also beat up on Dewhit between bouts of drinking, just to keep in practice. As a consequence Dewhit slept many a night in the woods away from home, and missed many a meal.

Beaten, hungry, and pissed at the world, Dewhit sometimes lashed back at whoever came within range. Now I had to do my best to make his life even more miserable. Moreover, I knew the punishment coming my way as soon as I accomplished the deed.

Nevertheless, I waited, abided my time, and just at the end of the noon break (kids actually walked home for lunch in those long ago golden days) I caught Dewhit alone in the classroom. I guess he knew from just looking at me, my plans for his immediate future. I guess he’d had more then enough practice. He backed into a corner and waited. “Dewhit, you can come out and get this over, or I’m coming in after you.” Dewhit didn’t say anything, he didn’t like it, and was most likely looking for an opportunity at slipping away with a shift and a shuffle. He was quick on his feet, nimble, and practiced at avoiding reaching hands.

Dewhit was small, thin, and fast. Useful attributes, given his home life. He came out as I closed, tried a shift, but I tackled him, and using my size and weight shoved him into a wall, knocking out his breath, and was well into the process of adding a few more layers to Dewhit’s bruise collection when we both were grabbed from behind by twelfth grade Senior hall monitors attracted by our yelling, the tumble of furniture, and the shouts of encouragement coming from other kids entertained by the excitement of the moment. Ours was a very small school of four rooms, two for elementary grades, and two for the high school grades, plus an auditorium, and the Principal’s Office.

That being the destination to which Dewhit and I were summarily marched, wedgie style. The Principal listened sourly to the hall monitors, and asked a few questions. Dewhit claimed that I came looking for him and had beaten him up. Yes, Dewhit somewhat reluctantly admitted, he had hit back, “Damned straight.”

I allowed as I had gone looking for Dewhit because of the shiner he’d given me the day before, and that Yes, I’d been punching Dewhit as good as I could after I’d pounded him into the wall. I said that the day before, I hadn’t thought I was going to get a shiner from his little punch and besides I’d wanted to bat, not get in a fight over a little thing like that. But it had turned out bigger than I’d thought, and if I had to live with his shiner, he could live with a few hurt places too.

The monitors confirmed that the fists had been flying from both of us when they arrived on the scene.

Dewhit got three swats for fighting, and one more for swearing. I got three swats for fighting, and three more for going looking for a fight. I wasn’t proud of it then, or later, but I set a new school record for the year that day: the most swats for a single incident. Even Dewhit was wide eyed at that, and he was a regular visitor and swat collector. The Principal was like that. He was my Dad.

Of course, the story was all over town within fifteen minutes. A good story like that travels faster than any old telephone system. It got even better. When my Dad got home that night, I got three more swats for fighting at school. That, too, was my Dad. He even made a point of telling the story at the weekend domino parlor meeting, a sort of small town impromptu town hall meeting. It established beyond any shadow of any doubt that he was a hard ass, would brook no foolishness, not even from his own son at school. It also had an added benefit of cutting down on fighting at school.

As for me, I ate supper standing up. And got no more swats at school until eighth grade, when I got three more, for fighting. This time with my best friend.

That was also the year Dewhit got sent to the Reform School. Again it was a quick flare of his temper, opportunity, a four-ten shotgun in his hand and Dewhit quite literally shot a boy out of a tree for calling him a profane name. This incident caused the permanent loss of an eye, and very nearly killed the boy.

Bullies rarely change, they just learn to usually hide their behavior. As adults, they beat up on their wives and children when given the opportunity, especially when drunk, or under the influence of other drugs.

(c) Copyright 2006: George Wallace recently published a book on religion which lashes out at nearly all of the comfortable ideas about God, the trappings of organized religion, and the priesthood. His pithy comments and suggestions for a return to a God-centered personal religion will interest everyone. This article may be freely reprinted so long as all copyright attributions, and the full content of this resource box are included. www.OhGodIsThatYou.com

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