A fair fight

When I was a kid I was small. I didn’t crack five feet tall until I was nearly seventeen. In middle age I stand at five foot nine and a half inches. And yes that half inch matters to me — when you spend your formative years teased, made fun of, and humiliated because you’re a small boy it leaves an impression. There are days where I still feel small.

I was quiet. I was shy. I was gentle. I loved to read and draw. Mostly I’d play with girls because the boys were cruel, but that only made them crueler.

As the 80s marched on the other boys got bigger while I stayed small. It was probably second grade when the fights started. I might have been small but I was stubborn. I don’t remember the details really. Just the feeling of not wanting my parents to see the bruises. My parents probably heard things during parent/teacher conferences, and I imagine I wasn’t as good at hiding things as I thought I was. I don’t think I won any of those early fights, but I got good at taking a beating and I never backed down. Quiet. Shy. Small. But headstrong. I wanted to do what was right, and in my heart I knew that giving in to bullies wasn’t right. So I stood up every time they pushed me down. I took every punch, every kick, and every time I’d walk back into the school.

At some point my father pulled me aside. I don’t remember all the words he used, exactly how old I was, or where we were. I know he spoke in a gentle voice and told me he loved me. He spoke with kindness, and as a parent myself I’m sure he was holding back the rage of a broken heart seeing…