It amazes me that yes, I was blind. I was blind to the truth and blinded by the surrounding ignorance and the stupid bliss of capricious youth. I was blinded by the so-called standard and the status whores who were all too driven by the ideas of being cool and popular.
I was blind to the pains or the painful truth that there is a great big world out there and that life and all its meanings were bigger than my tiny circles of influence.
My life was small and the world was greater in magnitude and more worthy than the local knucklehead friends.
Friends . . .
I called them friends back then but the word has new meanings to me now. Still, I called them friends who were nothing more than the popular hoodlums who somehow had too much say and influence in my life.
It’s not what you did or said; it’s how you did things or how you spoke. It’s not the matter of standing on a corner, it was more the matter of being able to stand cool, like the silent rebel, mysterious and keen and nonchalant about whether it rains or pours. And no, the sight of blood or the thought of pain could not make you faint or even flinch.
And sure, we smoked at a young age. I did lots of things at a young age. But it’s not just if you smoked or what brand, but it’s how you stood and how you held your cigarette and blew out your drag and exhaled the smoke to the air, as if to defy everyone, including the gods.
In fairness though. I was never cool.
I was never beautiful, to say the least.
I was never tough.
I was only afraid.
I was scared of my own shadow, but no.
No one could know this.
No one could see me.
Even if my invisibility was obvious and even if I hid my fears beneath transparent masks; I had to try and act as if.
I often think about a fellow youngster named Billy.
Billy was just another kid. Billy was a good kid, straight, and kind, and Billy is what I used to call a middle of the lunchroom kid.
Billy didn’t sit with the popular ones or the athletes on the right side of the cafeteria. Nor did he sit with the bad kids or the infamous ones on the left side in the school’s lunch room.
No, Billy was a middle of the room kid. He was too plain. Billy was one of those kids who if you didn’t know him because of a class you had, then he would be nothing more than another faceless kid in the school, unknown and unwanted.
He was a middle of the room kid, which meant that Billy was neither cool nor unpopular, but just unmentioned and unnoticed. He never received an invitation to drink beers in the back corner of the football field. Billy was never invited to any of the wild parties either.
And, if we are being honest about the culture and teenage popularity, which shapes our direction and our future selves; the wild parties from back in the day is where the story machine came from.
This is where Vin drank a bottle of Absolut Vodka on a dare and ended up in the hospital. This is where the wild reputations build the echelons of social appeal and popularity.
But not everyone was invited.
And half the time, I wasn’t invited either.
Billy was a middle of the room kid, chubby, buzzed with a crew cut hairstyle and seemingly unwantable with no romantic prospects on the horizon and no chance to lose his virginity at any point soon.
Truth be told, Billy was a good kid. I liked Billy.
Truth be told, Billy was the kind of friend that anyone would be lucky to have. Billy did not have any kind of social charisma. He was nerd-like, maybe, and he was not a well-known kid. But he was a good kid
And I?
I was nothing more than a tiny insecure excuse for a person. I had no spine. I had no dignity. I moved with the flow of the crowd and worse, I betrayed myself and my truths and my dreams on a daily basis.
I remember one of my worst days.
This was the day that I found out I was left back again. And yes. I say the word again because being left back was common for me.
This was a day that I would have to face the shame and my truth. This was going to happen. No matter what.
And I would have to face this shame when I came home and told my folks. I had to tell them that once more, I never made it out of 7th or 8th grade math. I had to report to them and explain that I’d have to redo ninth grade again too.
I was somewhere close to my old school and halfway to my house.
Billy rode by on his bicycle.
I was with two of the local hooligans who I could never call friends. But I thought they were friends back then.
In all honesty, I could never call them friends because if something bad ever came and the choice was them or me; It would always be me.
Always.
They geared me up to fight Billy.
They wanted me to fight hom for no reason.
And the funny part is I just mentioned to you how if it were a question of them or me . . .They would throw me under the bus and use me for firewood as soon as they got cold.
I did the same thing to Billy.
They wanted me to fight Billy.
And I did it
I hit Billy
I hit Billy.
I hit Billy because he reminded me of my fears of how I was afraid to be like him. I punched Billy in the face as if I was punching myself because I was petrified to be like him.
I never wanted to be faceless and unknown or to be some wasted and unwanted kid who sat in the middle of the lunchroom.
This was Billy,
No friends. No invitations. No reason to be remembered.
He resembled my inner perspective, that I was this ugly kid, unwanted and uncool, and now I had to add stupid to the mix.
I say no friends . . .
Billy had more friends than I’ll ever have.
He was a better man than me.
Billy was the first person who I ever successfully punched. And I hit him hard and I hit him true enough to draw blood.
I gained what’s called blood-smell which is when an animal understands that they can hunt for food and they can kill for meat.
I felt this way.
Billy went home crying. I went off and felt the hatred in my chest. I felt contempt for myself because I knew I was wrong. Billy was a good kid and I was no better than the bullies who tortured me.
This came back to me, not long after, perhaps a few minutes after Billy arrived home.
Billy’s older brother loaded Billy in his car, bloodied and crying, and they drove around the neighborhood to find me.
Billy’s older brother went to kick me around and beat me up but Billy screamed and cried. Billy pleaded with him
“Please don’t hurt him!”
“Please!!” Billy screamed
At that point, I wanted the beating.
I wanted to die.
I knew I was about to go home and face the wrath from the judgment and jury of my parents.
I knew I would have to face my failure in school. And to add color, Billy’s big brother took me home to explain what I did to his little brother
This was almost 40 years ago. I do not hold this per se, but I remember this well.
I hate bullies.
I have more dignity now.
And I consider myself someone who would stand out and defend someone who cannot defend themselves.
However, I remember Billy because this tells a lot about the weakness of my past. This taught me about the hate and the disgust I felt towards myself. And, too, this show me the ways I imploded and destroyed anything and everything around me.
There are pieces of me and parts of my history that if they were an actual person, and if it were possible, I would physically punish and pulverize that person.
I am far from that person now. And more, I am a voice for those who go voiceless or those who live bullied or pointed at and shamed for a special need or a difference.
And this is funny too because I am often told about the way I look or appear. I am told people would see me and assume that I would be “that guy” or some kind of bully.
But no.
I suppose the greatest feeling I have ever had was to give a smile to a person who was either subjected to bullying or bullied due to their differences.
The best feeling is to normalize a person who never saw themselves as normal.
Making someone feel human or humanizing someone is such a kind thing to do. And no, this does not pay for my sins and nor does this excuse me from the crimes or the wrongs that disgust me.
I saw a show where they stage a scene to see how people react.
I find these shows dangerous because had it been me, or had I witnessed someone picking on a little girl for having special needs, like Down’s Syndrome, I think I would respond in a way that would be irreversible. And then it would be on the producers to explain to the police why something violent took place.
No one should ever be bullied or picked on.
No one should ever have their childhood stolen from them.
And while I admit that I am no angel or saint, I would willingly be a warrior for those who cannot fight for themselves.
I am never going to be tough enough or cool
But at this point, I’d rather have friends and be around ore people like Billy . . .
Wherever he is
I hope you are well and living the best life possible.
Stay you, kid
I never had the guts to tell you
But you were better than anyone else around.
It’s the truth
The Written Addiction 