There was this moment, I think it was my 4th or 5th grade year, when I felt what it was like to be made fun of. I had not remembered up until this point. My kindergarten memory is one of carpet squares and naps. First and second get mixed in together. I had 2 different schools and about the only thing I have fondness for is my grandmother's apartment complex and walking to school. But third is when kids became mean. And I did too.
Walking in line from lunch, I kicked a confessed "booger eater" in the shin. I had to hold my lunch tray above my head during lunch. We had "put down" contests at lunch, too. We worked on perfecting the "your momma is so fat" jokes and our intention was to make other kids cry. No one made fun of me much in third, simply because I became the bully, the loudmouth and the jokester.
In 4th and 5th, I moved to another school. I was the last one picked in class for games, the one who always seemed in trouble, the one who had something to prove. One of my first activities at recess was bopping a kid in the eye with a pine cone--not a great first impression. I made friends, the wrong ones. I translated Michael Jackson's Thriller album lyrics into pornographic fantasies. (In the meantime, I was writing short stories about a fictional GI Joe team who kicked communist butt.) I had friends but I lived on the fringe. This became more evident by the lack of skill I presented in kickball.
So I did something about it. I kicked the one kickball we had against the brick wall we had at my house. Catching it and kicking it, over and over. I had my other fringe friend Kevin Hebert meet me, roll the ball my way and kicked it high into the air. All the adventure a boy could muster hinged on the flight of that red rubber ball.
It was the one time I remember when I fought for something. The bully who fought for his line among the pack. No more getting picked last. No more making fun of this guy.
Afterwards, the wages of my self-reliance led to a mountain of problems. I didn't fight again. I argued, yes, but I never fought. I argued with my mom over who to spend my time with Surely not that girl? I argued with my step-father over the path he had taken with Jesus. We're talking about you, right? I argued with a Wal-Mart employee over an unassembled grill I purchased. I even cursed. Wearing my school t-shirt.
None of them made me feel like a man. At the time it did, I'm sure. The rush of saying the f word in a public setting (it's not just for white people to say anymore, my mind told me) will do that. Fighting for the right to be a jackass is easy, I learned. Anyone can do that.
This past week, I have been delivering one message to my fifth graders. Doing well, making good grades, being here in attendance is hard. Failing is easy. Throwing a temper tantrum is easy. Not doing homework, making excuses and losing your papers is always easy. But work is called work for a reason. Do you want an easy life? Or one you're proud of because you stepped up?
And the lessons continue. Especially for me.
A quote from my men's study: Let the world feel the weight of you and let them handle it.
After the foul-mouthed kid grew up, he found outlets for his cravings. Pornography made it easy to stay at home and fail at relationships. Why make a girl happy when this one on the computer screen, in this glossy magazine, does it for nothing. I ate everything in sight simply because everyone expected me to eat. I dropped out of school because that's what minorities do anyway, right?
I had to learn to fight.
For my students. For my kids. I want to fight battles that other people probably don't want me to enlist for. Saying the one line in a staff meeting that raises eyebrows ignites those flames. Getting fired up about a kid's effort and capacity to learn instead of the usual you-annoy-me cathedral is music in my room. " When I'm done teaching, I'm sweating," a professor at college once told me. And he sure looked the part. As a future teacher, I wanted that passion. Ray Rotella was one of the first men I met along the way. God placed him in my path before I even knew God was pursuing me. Ray and I never even talked about Jesus or God, but he was there in that part of my life for a reason. Have passion!
So I'm fighting. Joining the battle. I just finished writing notes after dinner for the men's study. I'm enlisting men into battle like some Tio Sam. I want warriors. I want wounded men who are ready for purpose. I want to love my wife like when we first met. And you know what happens when you fight for your loved one? The passion returns. Oh yes.
And now I know what Kevin Hebert must have felt awaiting the return of the red rubber ball. Is it ever going to return? Not today, my friend. Not today.
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