ParrotEyes: June 2009

It took me years to realize that adversity and defeat were often times learning experiences for me to know how to overcome and conquer against indefinable and insurmountable odds. And today, forty eight years later, I can still remember the first time someone beat me up. But it’s funny that I don’t have many memories of the pain I felt at the time from having my lip swollen or my ribs hurting. I mainly remember the happiness and satisfaction of the day I stopped having those hurts anymore. I guess it’s like a lady delivering a baby, that . . . I’ve heard . . . hurts so much during labor but once the baby’s out, the joy replaces the memory of the pain.
At the end of the 4th grade, Mother and Daddy (the man I knew as my daddy, but who was really my step-dad) had just bought our first home. Until then, we’d lived in a duplex on the west side of Fort Worth. Since Mother had just had my baby sister Mary Lou, there were now five of us with me and my brother. And I guess they felt it was time to move on up and take the leap into home ownership.
They bought a nice little white frame, 3 bedroom and one bath home on the east side of town. 3108 Meadowbrook Drive. It had a one car garage that was about to fall down. Peach trees in the back yard and lots of cool hide-outs in the shrubs. Prices were cheaper there than the west side. Compared to where we’d come from I thought it was a giant leap forward. For me it was our castle. I later realized that it was simply a lower middle class working neighborhood. I can still clearly remember hearing Daddy complain day after day about having taken such an extravagant leap of faith. $9,600.00 to buy a house??? “Bettye, what on earth were we thinking?” he’d say to my mom. “I’m sure I’ll end up in the poor house someday over this”.
That was 1960, and the interest rate was a whopping 4.5% and with a 20 year mortgage, all Daddy could see in front of him was that he’d be obligated for the $95.00 a month house payment for the rest of his life.
Of course I wasn’t worried if he ended up in the poor house or not. I got my own bedroom out of the arrangement and my brother and baby sister got a bedroom to share. My mother even painted my room navy blue as I requested. I didn't know anyone with a navy blue room. It was . . .to me . . .my own personal mark of distinction. And what did I care if it caused us to end up in the poor house someday? For the time being at least . . .I had my own room. My own kingdom. My own escape.

I did wonder though, and often asked a few times . . .if we could drive by and see the poor house someday? Was it far from where we lived now? Would I have to change schools again if we lived in the poor house? Would I have my own bedroom there? I did . . .even at 10 years of age, have a mind that tended to think about the future more than the present. And if there was such a good chance our present home was temporary, I did want to know what I might look forward to at our future home in the poor house. Daddy would just say that I’d better hope and pray we never ended up there. But he’d never tell me why we couldn’t go see it.

My mind drifted sometimes to wondering about things and ideas that never crossed other children’s minds. Would there be other children at the poor house? Would they allow dogs at the poor house? Would we have to eat stewed okra at the poor house? Or would we even be allowed to eat at all there? Was it air conditioned? Our house wasn’t. Maybe, I thought to myself, it might not be such a bad place after all if it was at least air conditioned. Fort Worth Texas could be very hot in the summer time when the temperature might rise to 110 degrees. And daddy’s advice when I’d complain about the heat . . . .or anything else for that matter . . . .was, “just don’t think about it”. I never understood that. How could you not think about something that was leading us to all be so uncomfortable. Maybe in the poor house I wouldn’t have to think about being hot?

Our next door neighbors . . the Baxters . . . had an air conditioner. And they ran it all the time. Mr. Baxter said it was because his wife was sick all the time and he had to keep her comfortable. My mother and dad said it was because his wife should be on a loony farm somewhere and he kept it running to keep from blowing his top at her craziness. That of course, made me wonder what was it like on a loony farm? Where was the nearest loony farm? Was it nice there? Cows? Horses? Chickens? Did they have air conditioning at a loony farm? Why, I asked could, someone belong there but be living in a house? For that matter, why on earth would anyone choose to live in a house, when they had an opportunity to live on a farm? I loved farms. And so on. My parents could always offer these explanations for the way things were, but instead of explaining it to me it just caused me to have a hundred more questions.

I remember when we finally did get one window unit air conditioner. We put it in the living room. We couldn’t turn it on all day while it was hot. But we only could turn it on at night when daddy got home and we had dinner and then watched his television shows. I really didn’t care about watching Dinah Shore or some of the other shows he wanted to see. But I’d watch anyway just for the pleasure of being able to lay on the living room floor and feel the coolness blowing on me. And instead of paying attention to the program I’d fantasize about being rich and think to myself that rich people probably lay on the floor all the time in front of continuously running air conditioners.

I’d try to think of rational and logical discussions that I could have with Mother and Daddy about why I felt we should run it more often. I never liked to study much and didn’t care about making good grades. I could when I wanted to, but usually I just didn’t care enough to try. But several times I would decide to make a great score on a test. And I’d take the paper home and show the family and tell Mother and Daddy that this was proof that we should run it more because I had studied specifically for that test on the evening while I was cool in front of the air conditioner. My mom’s answer was that it had nothing to do with the air conditioner but was just a sign of my own natural brilliance and I should take it as an opportunity to learn of my own great potential. And then I’d have to discuss with her the story that I’d read (which I hadn’t) about how difficult it was for children to do well in school when they had the distraction of perspiration dripping down their face and into their eyes. I tried to tell them that I’d heard that adults lived longer equal to the number of hours they had remained cool. That didn’t seem to phase either of them. Whenever I would be sick, I’d tell them that I felt it was heat induced. Mother assured me that even kids with air conditioning all the time got measles. I tried telling her that studies had shown babies had fewer dirty diapers when they lived in air conditioning but I guess mother didn't mind my sister's dirty diapers because she got coolness no more often than I did. If my brother was sick, I'd always tell Mother that I thought he looked like he was having a heat stroke.

In the end, Daddy would just say that it made no difference whether I got better grades or not. But that running the air conditioner all the time would just speed up the time in which he’d be in the poor house. Then of course, I’d ask him if it wasn’t leading him to the poor house for us to have it on while he was home in the evening. And he’d tell me his own justification that “well, if I have to go to the poor house someday, I guess I ought to be as cool now as I can be now while I can enjoy it.” And then he’d just tell me to go outside and play or something. “ Just don’t think about it" he'd say. But I would. And I'd be hot. And I'd go back to making bad grades again.

In the afternoons when I did come home from school, it just was too hot to go in the house and since our front yard was completely shaded, I’d usually just stay outside and play in the shrubs . . .my imaginary office, or fort, or castle, or whatever I was fantasizing about at the moment. Often times I’d climb up in one of the big, tall Sycamores that were in the front yard and sit and pretend that I was a spy and on assignment from President Eisenhower himself to watch for the communist cars that would be driving by each day. The communists all drove Fords (I told myself) and I made it my mission to determine each day if the number of Fords was more or less than the day before. And which direction were they heading? Were they going into town or away from town. And I’d do that for two or three hours until dark and then go to dinner with the firm conviction that I was making the world a safer place for us all to live in. I would pretend that I was calling in my report by calling a freind of mine and "reporting in". I also knew that all the capitalists drove Buicks and Pontiacs and the people who drove the Chevrolets were the fence straddlers, that any day could be swayed over to one side or the other. So much hung in the balance every day . . I felt. It was a big burden for a lad of 10 or 11. And I alone, Lt. Colonel Bud McElhaney of the 5th Intelligence Brigade was the last line of defense to tell Ike whether we were winning or loosing in the cold war right here on our own homeland.

I remember well in the 6th grade, that on some afternoons, Carlton Mason would come walking home from school. We went to the same school and were in the same class. But Carlton was two or maybe three years older than all of the others in my class. When I was 12 and in the sixth grade, Carlton was already 14 or so. There was something that just wasn’t right about him. He talked a bit funny. Like he had a jaw-breaker in his mouth all the time. And he’d usually be late coming home from school because he had to stay after school almost every day for talking back to the teacher or something. I can remember that Mr. Gailey, our teacher, would often take him to the boys restroom and make him suck on a towel with Ivory soap to wash his mouth out of filth. If he had been born a crayon, he wouldn’t have been the sharpest one in the box. I'd heard Mother telling someone one time that he’d been stuck in a canal too long. I wondered if it was the Panama or the Suez? And what did they do to him while he was stuck there? Beat him? Make him eat too much stewed okra? Force feed him liver? What would it be like? It must be terrible I thought, because no one would ever choose to be like Carlton.

Carlton was bigger and older, and felt like he was ridiculed sometimes. I imagine he was ridiculed a lot because he was the meanest person I knew personally. He did not like being ridiculed. Who would? And he took it out on the smaller classmates. Carlton weighed in at about 160 in the 6th grade. I was a puny 110. So he was also one of the first bullies I have had to encounter. I tried to be nice to him for one whole year. I never said a bad word to him in all of the 5th grade. I even tried to get him to tell me what the canal looked like and where was it and was he stuck there long? Anything to be friends with the school yard bully. But he'd have none of it. He was never nice to me and always pushed me around when he got the chance. I didn't really take it personal. I'd had several nice people not want to be my friend before so why should I care if he didn't want to be?

Sometimes he’d come over to the table at lunch and just pick up my dessert or anyone else’s and take it and eat it and tell us that if we told anyone that he’d hurt us bad. I would lay in bed at night sometimes and try to imagine how he'd hurt us. I could imagine the worst. I retaliated against him in my own subtle and devious ways. I’d sometimes pick up very fresh dog poop on the way to school and put it in a bag and during the winter go in and put it in the pockets of his jacket in the cloak room. I put Red Ants in his pockets too many times. And always smiled all day thinking about recess. One time I got to class early and scotch-taped some really moldy cheese to the underside of his chair in the class room. I had hid that cheese out in the garage for a week in preparation for this day. It took a few more days to become really rank, and he had the most terrible odor emanating from his seat . . .which of course only added to the insults every one gave to him anyway. The other students were begging to not have to sit next to him. I didn't care. I was completely across the room from him with a seat by the window. He finally discovered the source of the foul offense and swore that he’d find out who did it and hurt them bad. I wasn’t scared a bit though. Since I’d only done it for my own satisfaction, I’d told no one so no one could snitch on me. Whatever they did to him when he got stuck in that canal certainly didn’t destroy all his brain cells. Because Carlton was smart enough to figure that whoever put the dog poopie and Red Ants in his coat pocket all the time was probably the stinking-cheese planter too. I carried a box of Chicklets chewing gum in my pocket for over a month with four Feen-a-Mint laxative tablets in it hoping he’d steal it someday, but he never did. Carlton didn't have the sense to know it at the time. But the worst was still yet to come for him.

Maybe I did have to put up with his threats and harassment and bullying at school. But after school, my front yard was my domain and I was determined to not put up with it there. It was my fortress. It was my battlefield on which I often stood on personal directive from President of the United States (now John Kennedy) to protect our country from the rise and threat of a bunch of communist Ford-driving thugs, that were hell bent on taking away all our freedoms. Actually, I wouldn’t have been surprised to learn that it was probably communists themselves who stuck Carlton in the canal he’d been stuck in. And just look how he turned out. But here I was. Right there in my own front yard observatory. In my hands lay the fate of an entire nation. Would we . . in the end . . .be a nation of Carltons ? Or could perhaps, one young patriot such as myself turn back the assault of Krushchev and his cronies and save our country. Someone had to defend us. And I was called to the task.

And if I was having the mission of saving us from a bunch of communist thugs . . . just like Carlton, then he damn sure wasn’t going to infiltrate my intelligence base of operations. And when I’d be perched up in my tree and he’d coming walking down my side of the street I’d yell at him to get over on the other side of the street and walk over there, and not come through my yard. He of course would look up in the tree and yell bad things at me and tell me that I couldn’t make him. And I . . .being the soldier I was . . .would come down from the tree and tell him it was my territory and my fortress and my yard and I wanted him out of it. And then Carlton . . .would quickly punch me in the stomach a few times. And sometimes in the face too. But usually just a couple of fast ones to the stomach would be enough to make me curl over and have the breath knocked out of me and then he’d give me one good parting kick in a bad spot or in the side and go off laughing down the street. What could I do? I was a soldier. And sometimes soldiers were injured. I took it in stride. And waited for the next time when I'd defeat him.
I certainly never told anyone he’d done it. And I tried to tell myself that the reason that he left was because he was afraid when I got my second wind that I would become an instrument of killing and destruction and he was trying to get away quick. Mother would sometimes ask why my lip was swollen or I had a big bruise. She did think that I got hit in the face a lot with baseballs at school and often times suggested maybe I play another sport because I certainly got a lot of puffy lips from that. But I’d have much rather she thought I was a sportsclutz than to know . . . or even worse my daddy know . . . that her son was getting his 12 year old butt whipped once a week on a regular basis.

It was about a once-a-week assault. I’d give it just about enough time for the swelling and soreness to subside and then I’d work up the courage one more time to confront him. By this time of course, Carlton made it a point to intentionally walk down my side of the street just to show me that he could . . .and would. And so . . . a week or so after the last beating, I’d tell him again to not do it. He’d tell me to come down out of the tree. He'd yell the same foul words at me as before. My gosh. He knew bad words that I'd never even heard before. And I would come down again. And he’d beat me up again. From March through May of my 6th grade year. Week after week after week he'd beat me up and the next week I'd try again.

I remember the last week of school that I thought to myself that I’d not have to endure it anymore because the next year we’d be going to Junior High and he would be taking the bus to school then and I’d not have to encounter him again. The previous week had been especially brutal and I was still swollen on my cheek from his pounding. Mother was really trying hard to convince me to give up baseball before I got myself killed or all my teeth knocked out. If she only knew! There was a part of me that thought about leaving him alone that last week. But a bigger part of me knew that I had to settle this once and for all. And so on that last week of school, I had a plan. And when Carlton came walking by, I went into my regular . . but so far failed . . .speech about not coming through my yard. He then gave me his regular . . .always to-that-date successful reply to get-down-out-of-that-tree-and-make-me. But there was something different that day that Carlton did not know would be coming. And when I came down from the tree, I stepped over to the shrubs nearby and reached inside and pulled out my Louisville Slugger baseball bat and I began to swing like a wild man. And I hit him on the side. I hit him in the ribs. I hit him in the neck. I hit him in the stomach. And then I hit him a good one in that special boy-spot-between-the-legs that he had kicked me so many times. When he curled over I gave him one more hard swing against his butt and he took off running and yelling and I could still hear him when he was a block away. I had saved my country! And I had redeemed myself. I had finally won. And I didn’t have a mark or scratch or bruise on me. Looking back, it’s a wonder I didn’t kill him or break his neck or something. I guess it was just fate and that God had not let me hurt him mortally since I was fighting for the righteous cause of freedom and liberty. (I rationalized). I didn't care. I just knew that he would not beat me up anymore.

That night sitting at the dinner table with the front door open, I heard a knock on the door and looked and it was Carlton and his mother. My dad got up and went to the door and had a long talk with them. And then he summoned me and asked if I had indeed done this to Carlton. I’ll swear, it did not help matters at all that I saw him and broke out laughing because he was so swollen up and bruised. He looked terrible. Much worse that he ever did to me. I was so proud. And he was so embarrassed that he wouldn’t even look me in the eyes. I told my dad boastfully that that "yes I had". He asked why. I could not tell him that it was because he had beat me up so many times, because my dad would have been even madder then that I’d let him. So I just said that I did it for the cause of liberty and because Carlton’s family were Ford-driving communists and I didn’t want him walking through my yard again. And then I looked at Carlton and told my dad and him that I’d do it again, but it would be worse he ever came back for more. So there! (I thought) . My dad assured Mrs. Mason that he would deal with me for the offense and they left and after dinner my dad took me, by pinching me on my shoulders right at the base of my neck in what I had learned to call his “Eric von Streeter torture grip” (Eric was my favorite professional wrestler on Saturday night wrestling) and lead me to my bedroom and jerked off his belt . . .as he had done so many times before. He told me to lean over the bed and pull down my pants for my whipping . . . .as I had done so many times before. And then he began to swing that one inch leather belt-strap as wildly as I’d swung the bat that afternoon. I have used better diplomacy with people than I did with my dad that night. Because that night receiving my initial lashes, I did not exercise my most excellent judgment with him. After he’d whipped me a dozen times or so, I didn’t wince or shed a tear. But I did look up at him and say to him defiantly . . ."that really didn’t even hurt near as bad as I had hurt Carlton today". And then . . . he whipped me some more. But I didn’t care this time. I did try to fight back the tears that night as long as possible and in the end when I did start screaming and crying, the whipping stopped. And Daddy went back to the air conditioned comfort of an evening with Lawrence Welk and the Lennon Sisters. But my tears quickly stopped. And I laid face down on my bed and smiled. I was proud of myself and 2,000 lashes couldn’t take that away from me. The only bad part of the whipping that night was that I couldn't wear shorts for a week because of my lashes. But that was ok. Sometimes soldiers are tortured and have their battle scars. I bore my proudly.

I learned that day, that any obstacle, or adversity can be overcome even in the face of insurmountable odds. All one needed was a little equalizing force. Just some small device or advantage to level the playing field. And all of that summer, and in the years to come, whenever Carlton Mason came walking down my street, he always passed over to the other side rather than coming in my yard again. And he never again stole my dessert. And today .. look where we are as a nation? Free from communism and living stuck in canals somewhere being tortured and fed stewed okra for being capitalists. Perhaps it’s because of my efforts in teaching one of the Carltons of this world that there are some people that you just can’t push around.

I’ve encountered other Carltons as my life has gone on. But I don’t sit there anymore and just keep taking the whipping. I look for an equalizer right away. But I’ve also learned that sometimes the first bat you grab isn’t big enough to do the job. So, you just have to find a bigger bat. And today 48 years later, I'm still having to find a good bat to use as an equalizer. Thank goodness though I don't get a belt whipping anymore.