Earning a Place at the Family Table

I am not a violent person. In fact I abhor violence. It makes me feel ill. Given that, I regard acts of violence against other people as a bad thing. Other than acts of self-defense, pounding someone else for the shear pleasure of overpowering them or teaching them a lesson is anti-social. As a kid, those values often become obscured and marred by the need  to be accepted.

In retrospect, I would classify my youth as a time of peace and solitude marked by numerous moments of hostility and even violence. Much of this hostility and violence was aimed at me. Living around my older brother often required that I resort to basic skills of self-preservation. A young kid having to learn those skills at such an early age was not conducive to overall happiness but it was my reality.

At around two years old, Mike jumped on my back and drove my head into a wooden block that I was innocently playing with. That incident required stitches in my head. I still bear the scar.

Through our childhood, I was Mike’s playmate much of the time. That means I was Mike’s punch-dummy when things went bad or he lost his temper. I was schooled by the law of hard-knocks–literally. If I dared to argue or go contrary to Mike’s assertions or ideas in any way, about virtually anything, I paid the price. Kicks and punches were my rewards.

I am sure I had numerous concussions and even other head injuries as a result of that violence. Dad and mom got-after my brother for those beatings he gave me, but I don’t recall them ever exercising any solid efforts to make him stop. Lectures about “being nice to your little brother” were about the extent of his punishment for taking his aggression out on me. From two years old until I reached about 14, that’s the way it was. At the time, I hated him for it.

Located in the middle inserts of comic books that I read when I was a small boy were a couple of popular ads that always caught my attention. One was of a picture of Charles Atlas who lifted weights and became incredibly strong. The ad promised that if I lifted weights, exercised and became strong like Charles, I wouldn't have to “let people kick sand in my face anymore.” The other ad was of a wimpy guy who learned karate. Once he discovered the secrets of this Oriental art of self-protection, he could kick anyone’s butt! For $.25, I could get the detailed plans to learn those measures. I was sold! Whatever it would take to be able to pound the daylights out of Mike, I was willing to try.

Like most of my yearly overt intentions of self-improvement, they fell by the wayside as my money was used for immediate rewards like candy, gum, and cool stuff that came on sale in the Kings Dime Store toy section. But I must say, those comic book ads brought a lot of solace and hope to a small, timid boy who was the sole object of daily terror and hostility. I suppose like other “younger brothers” who could identify with what I was experiencing, I discovered the means of self-preservation to guarantee my survival. Mine was simple. I could run faster than Mike.

My brother knew that I could outrun him. So he developed his own personal means of equalization. He became an accurate thrower of rocks, sticks, or other prehistoric weapons. It would go something like this. I would recall the recent beating I took and figure it was time to get even with Mike.

“Mikey, Mikey two-by-four, couldn't get through the bathroom door, so he did it on the floor. Mikey’s a fat-so!” I yelled as I ran like the wind.

At that point, Mike would grab the nearest prehistoric weapon and lob it in my direction. I don’t know how, but so many times, those sticks and stones rained down in direct hits on my cranium as I ran away. I could never figure out how he was so accurate and could throw so far. But the drive to stay even in the score of hostility was worth it in spite of the inevitable pain I would suffer.

Also in retrospect, I am sure that if dad would not have encouraged Mike so often, my brother’s resort to violence at every turn would not have lasted long. But that was not to be. Every time my brother came home from school with the report of him beating-up another kid, dad praised him and reminded him that was the true “Hicks” way of dealing with conflict. “Pound them into submission and teach them a lesson.”

There were times when I was profoundly cognizant of the fact that I might be adopted. I did not handle myself like the other Hicks folks as dad described. I mused that beating and pounding on someone else with my fists was a stupid way to conduct myself. Why would I want to pummel some kid because I disagreed with him? It didn't make sense. But, according to my understanding of dad’s inferences, that’s what I must do in order to follow the family tradition.

One day in seventh grade, I would get my chance to prove my family connection. Sitting in Mrs. Pike’s English class, my desk was situated between Chris’ and Randy’s. Those two boys were mutual friends of mine, but I didn't consider either one of them especially close friends although later in high school, I spent time with Chris in sports and came to like him a lot.

Suddenly, Randy turned around and flicked his fountain-tipped pen in Chris’ direction. Ink blotches sprayed all over my favorite brown shirt. This particular shirt was custom-made by mom when she cut the sleeves off a long-sleeved dress shirt. I looked down and saw ink everywhere. Something clicked in my brain and I instantly became furious at Randy.

Pike told me to go down to the bathroom and see if I could wash the ink off my brown shirt. The black ink just smeared even more as I rubbed and dabbed the blotches with a wet paper towel. This incident occurred just before lunch.

As I returned to my classroom and sat down, I informed Randy that after class, he was going to be a dead man. This worried him and he apologized profusely for getting ink on my shirt. After class, he grabbed his books and ran downstairs to the entrance to dad’s classroom. Dad was just leaving to grab some lunch in the teachers’ lounge. Randy pleaded for dad to save him because, “Jeff is mad and going to beat me up.” Dad didn't know what he was talking about.

I walked up and invited Randy outside. The school exit was located by dad’s classroom. Randy declined, so I grabbed his hair and kneed him in the stomach. Then I pummeled him with a flurry of uppercuts and hooks to his face. I was so mad and wanted him to feel pain. Within a moment, dad pulled me off the poor kid and sent me outside. The fight was over and Randy had “learned his lesson” as dad would so profoundly say.

I suppose that fisticuffs with Randy gave me rights to a place in the Hicks family album of fights and beatings targeting others who had lessons to learn. Within a short time of “teaching Randy a lesson” I was not happy about my anger and about the subsequent thrashing I gave the kid. However, at his expense and “lessons learned,” I earned a place at the family table.