Do You Know How to Fight?

When I was in 5^th grade, I went to an elementary school in a rough part of California (Yes, there are rough sections of California). Every day there were fights on the playground during recess. While other kids undoubtedly looked forward to playing on the monkey bars or kickball, maybe dodge ball or a short game of tackle football—most of us at Katella Elementary School could only look forward to a 30 minute version of the Hunger Games. So recess was every man for himself, and there was no prize to the victor other than less bruises and black eyes.

So, for a solid year, my life went something like this…

·      Wake up, eat breakfast, get ready for school

·      Walk to school and avoid eye contact with anyone (especially one kid named Shawn, who seemed to have committed his life to wallpapering my face with colorful cuts and bruises.)

·      Get through the first 2 classes while watching a clock that seemed to be stuck in perpetual slow motion.

·      Recess (Hell on earth)

·      Ridicule for getting beat up—lasted till the bell rang and school ended.

·      Walk home and try to avoid eye-contact with any of the guys (and even some tougher girls) who viewed me as more punching bag than human.

·      Head for my room and sometimes cry like a decidedly un-tough, 4 year old girl.

Ahh, memories.

Yep, that was 5^th grade—for a while anyway—and cuts and bruises, bloody noses and black eyes were the souvenirs from my brief stay at Katella. And, as I said, the shopkeeper dolling out these mementos to me each day was almost always, Shawn.

So, I hated 5^th grade because there seemed to be nothing I could do to.

I didn’t know how to fight.

After several months of this I actually began to wonder if this would be my lot in the world—not knowing how to fight yet having to fight my way through life.

Then, one day my uncle came to visit. He wasn’t my favorite uncle or anything—truth be told, I really didn’t like him at all. He was crass, sarcastic, mean, and standoffish. The little I knew about him was that he’d “grown up on the streets”—which didn’t make sense to a 10 year old. I thought, “How do you grow up on the streets? Do you live in the sewers? Literally have a house somewhere in the middle of a street? I mean, what’s that even mean?” But I did know one more thing about him. He was a rough character who you better not cross. So I didn’t. In fact, I avoided him altogether.

But one day, as I returned home form school, and another day of playing the mole in what seemed like a mandatory game of whack a mole—there he was—telling my sister and brother another story about growing up on the streets and having to fight his way through life.

Fight his way through life?

Wait! I thought That’s me! So, instead of avoiding him and heading straight for my room as I’d done on every previous occasion, I moved to the corner of the family room and listened as he got into a fighting stance in order to enhance the verbal version of his story with a little acting. As he talked he also bobbed and weaved like a prize fighter. Occasionally he would flick a few quick jabs and then swing his right fist through the air complete with yelling out, “POW!” I was riveted.

In fact, I was so engrossed in the story that I completely lost track of time. But I snapped out of it when he looked over at me and said, “Robby?” Man, I hate being called that! “Robby, seems to me, you could use a little bit of this but you have a choice to make first. You can either come home every day with a new bruise, bloody nose, or alternating black eyes. Or, you can learn to fight.

Would you like me to teach you how to fight?

Tune in tomorrow.