It
was easier, that night, to play Bat Boy. Nope, sounds like a baseball bitch.
I
went out and caught a bus. Traveling into North Philly, I felt more and more
out of place. Eventually I was the only white person on the bus, but nobody
said anything to me. I got off and walked by a shopping center with a
McDonald’s as big as a church. Somebody rode by playing a rap song so loud the
house windows rattled. I tried not to look at anybody, walking down to Mike’s
block. A group of guys looked at me. One said, “Hey kid, you want dippers?”
Another
added, “Make you feel like a super-hero.”
“You
gone need that out here.” A few laughs and then they ignored me.
I
shook my head no and shuffled past. I didn’t feel like a super-hero, but I
actually was one.
A
group of kids my age were playing football in the middle of the block. I stood
watching them until I saw Deshawn. He stuck out, giving orders, calling
huddles, angry at his receivers for missing catches. When a smaller kid
suggested he throw, Deshawn said, “You think you can throw?”
The
kid said, “Better than your corny passes.” Deshawn threw the ball right into
the kid’s face at point blank range.
“Better
than that?”
The
kid shook his head and said, “You an asshole.”
I
was shocked a little and I think my jaw was hanging open. He saw me. “What you
looking at, whitey?’
I
didn’t say anything. He stalked toward me, and I thought he was going to hit
me. “You better answer me when I ask a question.” Actually, he tried to push me
first; two hands came up shoving me in the chest. I didn’t move, but he fell
back a few steps. The voices of the other kids around started. “Oh snap,
Deshawn.”
“He
ain’t scared of you, Deshawn.”
“Why
you push like a (insert misogynist word referring to the female anatomy here.
Miss Farr said that she hoped that if we ever used words derogatory toward
female genitalia that we would never get close to one)?”
Deshawn
knew better than to talk at that point, he stepped up and threw the biggest
punch he had. I caught it. He looked at me in shock, and then, following his
instinct, swung the other fist. I side-stepped that one, and brought the flat
of my hand across his face hard. The swashing blow knocked him back. The only
thing that kept him from hitting the asphalt was my grip on his other hand.
“Damn.”
“Deshawn,
he ain’t respect you enough to punch you.”
“Slap
you like your mama.”
The
commentary was quality. I let go of him. I could see the fear in his face, the
slap still hurt, but he was more scared of the comments, the damage to his reputation.
He got up, and came at me one more time. This time I slapped him with a hammer
motion on the top of his head. The blow pushed him to his knees.
“Damn.”
I
waited until his eyes refocused, and he looked me in the eye. “Stop picking on
people for no reason. You don’t want me coming back.”
He
nodded, and murmured, “Ok.” I walked off. On the ride home, I replayed the
events of the fight. I tried to feel triumphant, but being super-powered and beating
up on regular people, even when they’re bullies, doesn’t feel that great. Mouse
squasher. Jack the G-Ant-Killer. Get it. G as in gangster?
I
thought that Mike would be talking over the next couple days about how much
Deshawn had changed. Even if it didn’t feel like a triumph, it’d feel nice
hearing how Mike’s situation was improved. I thought about telling him what I’d
done for him. He’d love the part about Deshawn’s humiliation in front of the
whole bunch. I threw that idea out, ‘cause Mike would be mad I didn’t tell him
about my super powers right away.
However, the next
day, Mike didn’t come to school, and the day after that he came in with an
ankle splint and the lumpiest eye I’d ever seen.
Kyana
started, “What happened to you?”
Mike
shook his head.
“Not
that Deshawn dickhead?”
Mike
nodded his head. “Yeah. So my little friend Boog from our block told me this
crazy story. Two nights ago all the kids on our block are playing football on
the street, yelling five oh every time they say a cop car, just your normal
night in the ghetto. Then this white kid walks down the block, like some serial
killer, and stares at Deshawn. Deshawn gets offended and steps to this white
kid, who basically concusses Deshawn with two slaps and tells him that he’s
supposed to stop picking on people. All the kids are nodding, but after the
white kid leaves, Deshawn starts to beat up the smallest kid out there, who was
Boog, and Boog just cussed him out, but then the next morning he manages to get
up at six thirty and fuck my morning up. He punches me a few times, and if that
wasn’t enough chucks me down into the train tracks, and when I land I sprained
my ankle. My mom said she’s too busy to go to the doctor. So that’s how come I
missed two days.”
My
first reaction was I got angry with Deshawn. Why wouldn’t he learn? But what
Mike said next showed me the truth.
“That
dumb mutant white kid. Don’t he know that shit always flow downhill?”
I
didn’t say anything to that. He looked at me. “It’s weird, the kid sounded like
you- but if you had mutant strength you’d tell me.”
“Yeah,
of course.”
“You’d
need a Professor X to give you advice.”
“I’d
think you more as an Aunt May.”
“Same
thing.” Of course I couldn’t tell him. He wouldn’t believe me, and he’d be mad
at me for basically breaking his leg if he did. I felt so stupid.
One
of the things that Miss Farr talked about as we were reading toward the end of Hamlet was the
logic of blood. She talked about how gangster movies, whether it’s Godfather, Goodfellas,
or Scarface,
those who kill, spill blood, don’t escape the repercussions. Each act of
violence is like a rock thrown in a pond; its effects ripples out and hurt even
those far from it. Claudius kills the King, and the whole kingdom is
destabilized. Hamlet stabs the “most secret, most grave” counselor, and Ophelia
dies, Laertes seeks revenge. In fact, she said, repercussion should be
reverberation, because it comes back on the perpetrator, and then bounces back
out.
That’s a lie in
comic books. Violence is not a solution. But I believed them, thinking slaps were going
to make North Philly a place where a smart kid could be safe.
2 comments:
I GOT MAD BAGS SKUNK ONLY 5!
No, seriously, I've been enjoying these installments. Keep it up!
Thanks, and points for commenting with a quote.
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