The Struggle to Be Known

If you know anything about me, you know that I talk a lot about being bullied as a kid. I probably talk about it too much. It’s almost like I’ve found a way to weaponize those experiences and wield them when I’m confronted with current-day foes.

“You can’t hurt me any more than I’ve already been hurt,” is my own private mantra.

While I’m certain there are aspects about these experiences that still affect me, I mostly reconciled them long ago. Yet, I’ve always believed there would come a day when I would want to write down the stories of my elementary years. Not because I think what I experienced was so much worse than what other kids experienced, but mostly because it seemed so hurtful to me at the time.

So, I decided the time was ripe to revisit a few of these episodes from my past and put them down in writing. I probably have a half dozen or so of these specific incidents that stand ready at all times … ready to be pulled from my mind at a moment’s notice.

The first of these I fondly refer to as, “Sucker Punch.”

It goes something like this:

Sucker Punch

One or both of my parents would usually pick me up after school. They were almost always early and would be waiting patiently in the car for the bell to ring. On one particularly hot and sunny day, when I was in the 5th grade, as I was leaving the school building at the end of the day, an athletic-looking young boy in a bright yellow shirt came zooming out of nowhere and directly toward me. Without any warning he fist-punched me in the face with such force that it knocked me flat on my back facing the sky.

Books, glasses, pencils, jacket, lunch box and half-eaten sandwich and Twinkies flew into the air … and in slow motion rained down all around me. It probably took five minutes for me to come to my senses and understand what happened. As I lay there, I vividly remember the laughter of many, many other boys and girls on the playground as they swarmed past me heading home.

What’s the most sad about this story is that my primary concern following the punch was whether or not I would be able to conceal the incident from my parents. My dad had drilled into me, over and over, “be a man” and “take up for yourself” and “fight back.” The bad news was, and I’m not joking when I say, I was literally the smallest kid in the school. From day one, I had a target on me … specifically on my nose this particular day.

My nickname, “shrimp,” was fitting and I hated it.

Following the punch, I slowly gathered my senses, and my stuff, and headed off toward the car where my parents were waiting. As I neared it, I rubbed my sleeve under my nose to check for blood. Miraculously, there was none. But my whole face seemed numb except for my nose, which seemed to be buzzing loudly like a bumble bee. I offered up a silent prayer that my face didn’t look distorted or swollen as I climbed in the back seat of the car. I struggled to act as normal as possible, keeping my head down. That day, my parents were engaged in some sort of deep discussion, and I was glad their attention was directed away from me.

They never noticed anything was wrong and I never told anyone, until now. And oddly enough, I don’t remember seeing the boy in the bright yellow shirt, ever again.

Flash forward to today: As I was walking my dog this past week, gathering my thoughts about exactly how I would tell the story of the sucker punch, I remembered a tiny detail that I had dismissed over 40 years ago. When the detail first came to mind, I dismissed it again, thinking to myself, that it was unimportant and that it didn’t fit properly into the story I wanted to tell. But as it repeatedly came to mind, I began to feel convicted about it.

SIDEBAR: I’ve read that each time you call up a memory to reexamine it, something about that memory is usually altered in the process. When your brain files it away again, in your internal file cabinet, the new updated version with all the changes is what’s stored.  The more times you remember an event, the more it can be altered. I’m thinking this is what happened to me. Somewhere along the way, I had completely dismissed this important detail of the sucker punch. But for some reason that memory persisted against odds … and appeared at the perfect “God-sent” moment.

The long-lost detail?

As I was sprawled prostrate on the ground following the smackdown … miracle of miracles … a classmate did stop, did help me up, did help me gather my books and my stuff, and did recommend that we tell the teacher on playground patrol.

I hastily responded to him, “I’m fine. I just want to go home. Mom and Dad are waiting.”  I don’t think I even thanked that young man or looked at him.  Although, I do think I now remember who he was!

When the impact of this memory fully bloomed in my mind, it stopped me in my tracks. It’s true that I was the object of unrelenting bullying throughout my school years, but even so, there were friends along the way who could and did lend a helping hand. Even when traumatic things have happened in my life, if I examine them closely, God seems to have people in place to point me in the right direction.

Following this recent incident, I’ve begun to reprocess my memories, and I’m finding there are often details that I’ve omitted that didn’t play into the stories I wanted to tell. When I consider these details, I’m beginning to see a pattern. Sometimes it’s not easy to detect, but I believe it’s more than simple coincidence that I’ve always had at least one constant companion near.

Today’s Goal:  Making a better effort to reinforce positive experiences, instead of negative. Working to release painful memories or at least “re-frame” them in a more productive way.