And what my family advised me were things we now consider cliché, like ‘hit him back,’ ‘punch him in the nose,’ or ‘if he gets a rock, you go get a brick,’ etc. The problem with all of that was that I really did not want to hit anybody. I was afraid. I was terribly afraid of getting hit and afraid of hurting someone. The root of my problems had greatly to do with my self-esteem and how I carried myself. My posture. If you walked around skulking, your shoulders slumped forward and frequently ducking your head, you were going to get bullied. I had been bullied sporadically, and throughout my childhood. All were pretty traumatic at the time, but the story I shall now relate was the one that permanently changed my life.
It was fall of 1989. I was 15 and in the 8th grade, and it was the start of a new year at school. It was early October, and I rode my bike to and from school, because the weather was still warm and pleasant, and our junior high was less than 5 miles away from my house. A fellow that I was acquainted with lived two doors up from me. We played often, when we were younger, and despite his temper and his tendency towards hitting people, I considered him a friend. We will call him Scott.
When we got out of school on this fateful October afternoon, I hopped on my 15-speed navy blue mountain bike and began the trip to home, keenly aware that Scott, his cousin whom I’ll call Kevin, and another neighborhood boy I’ll call Chris were watching me and followed somewhat closely behind me on their bikes, Scott and Chris on BMX bikes, still the rage in my town, despite the coming of skateboard mania a few years earlier, and Kevin on a borrowed 10-speed.
It was a beautiful day, and I was trying to focus on it, instead of the growing threat of an attack. As I pedaled down a neighborhood road that connected with a main street in our neighborhood, I was certain of Scott’s plans for another confrontation. The day before, he had confronted me on the street, claiming that I had been saying things about him behind his back. While this was not technically true, I calmly explained that I considered him a friend and would not say bad or false things about him. The truth was we hadn’t hung out together or played video games together, or done anything together in at least a whole summer. He was angry with me for some reason, and I was smart enough to stay inside, or otherwise avoid him. Anxiety quickly crept into my mind, raising my heart rate. I began to pedal faster, abruptly saying goodbye to a grade school acquaintance I saw and had briefly slowed down to chat with. I needed to put as much distance as possible between me and the three hostiles and I needed to do it fast!
But sure enough, once I got on the sidewalk adjacent to one of the main roads of our subdivision, Kevin sped up and began harassing me by bumping the front tire of his 10-speed into the back tire of my bike, the gear of which was set for a flatter grade of pavement, for I was not yet mountain bike savvy. This action, though it wasn’t physically hurting me or my bike, really stressed me out. Now our subdivision was mostly uphill, I’d say, and I was emotionally stressed and pre-asthmatic on a mountain bike I didn’t know how to fully utilize! This wasn’t turning out good. Then, Kevin sped up and tried to block me.
Forced to stop, I quickly sped up and changed direction, heading towards the sidewalk on the other side of the road, my tormentor close behind. We quickly came upon our street, Kevin taunting me all the way, half the time trying to pull me off my bike or cut in front and block me off. It was a wicked uphill climb, and I had nothing left, having spent most of my energy trying to get away. I remember making it about a third of the way up from the house, before I had to walk my bike, but instead I tried to run the bike up the hill out of fear and panic, all the while thinking ‘why can’t they just leave me alone?,’ and ‘I hate this stupid bike, why couldn’t my dad have gotten me a faster bike?’ In truth, it wasn’t my fault, my pursuers faults, the bike’s fault or my parents’ fault. It was just life. And it was an event that I was forced to participate in until conclusion, like it or not.
When I finally made it to my house, Kevin pulled my black Jansport backpack off my back and, before he tossed it up onto the roof, opened it, spilled out its contents, and kept my Trapper Keeper. While I watched in terror as Scott dismounted his BMX and approached me on foot, Kevin blocked me from unlocking my front door.
This is the part that really makes me angry. Kevin put his hand on my doorknob, therefore I couldn’t get in, and when I would try to pull his hand off the knob, he resisted. I was at least two years older, bigger and quite a bit taller than him. All I had to do was kick him in his fellas, and I would have been able to escape. Getting back to it, I used to rest my bike against the outer windowsill next to the front door. This time it was slumped awkwardly against the wall, the paint job probably scraped, or so I mused at the time.
Chris stood at the gate of our carport to visit with our excitable German Shepherd mix Brandy, who was oblivious to the bullying. Scott got in my face with the same claim that I had been saying suggestive things about him behind his back. Despite my denials, the verbal threats continued until I agreed to keep my mouth shut, even though I hadn’t said much. Scott wasn’t apparently aware of what little I had said about him, as he simply made it all up in order to bully me. When Kevin finally let go of the doorknob, I quickly rushed to it, unlocked it and dashed in, deserting my bike and my lost backpack. As they walked away, Kevin bragged to Scott, saying he thought I was gonna cry, and what a pussy I was. They all had a good laugh, as I quickly shut the door, for fear they would come back...and they always come back. Meanwhile I sobbed as I made my way to the back door to let Brandy in. I could hear them tearing up my homework, cheering as they did so.
Back then, I and a younger friend were both heavy into ninja movies and martial arts, and though neither of us actually knew martial arts, we collected and made ninja weapons, and ran about our street in broad daylight, wearing ninja costumes and carrying broom handles covered in grip tape as improvised Bo staves. Yes, I was a late bloomer. Go on. Act surprised. I’ll call this friend Tom.
The terrorizing began again, this time with several different neighbors and one fellow from school who lived further back in our subdivision, all banging on the door, prompting me to come out. I had come out early to rescue my bike, thankfully unharmed, though I had a tough time getting the door closed and locked. ‘When will this day be over?,’ I thought. I broke down and called my mom, who was busy at her computer analyst job. As I complained about what was happening, her only reply at first was that I had to handle it. ‘Oh, I’ll handle it all right,’ I sarcastically quipped as I hung up. I immediately ran downstairs, quickly loaded up on ninja gear and phoned Tom for backup.
Tom arrived a while after I got off the phone with him, using the secret knock we had agreed on and I quickly let him in the house. Frankly, he looked about as scared as I was, and repeatedly tried to calm me down, saying he didn’t think it was a good idea to confront them, as I was loading up my ninja gear. I refused, and was insistent that we confront them and that it had to end today. Apparently Tom had called his mother and informed her of my plans, Tom’s mom called me and immediately afterward she called my mom, and before you knew it, the police had arrived in my driveway.
After telling the officer what had been going on, the officer dictated an arrangement between myself and Scott, who had just happened to be on the street when the policeman arrived. The agreement was that Scott was to leave me alone, or the police would come back. Scott and I shook hands and before he left for his home, he was kind enough to help me get my backpack off the roof. While this seemed to quell the tribe of troublemakers, in the long run it made the situation worse.
Things got so bad, I grew morbidly afraid to be caught alone, outside. I would not take the trash out, worrying that Scott would be there waiting to deliver a beat down. I would run the cans out as fast as I could, no later than 9:30 PM and dash back in the house. My grandpa began picking me up from school, lecturing me all the way home, telling me that all my interest in martial arts was antagonizing my tormentors. Something had to be done, so my mom began asking her coworkers about their experiences with bullying. The idea that martial arts lessons were needed was already a subject in our household, given my love for ninja stuff and martial arts movie heroes like Bruce Lee and Jean Claude Van Damme. But now I actually had an excuse to take them. My mom went to three schools, before settling on one in the town next door to ours, the rate affordable, and the staff friendly and intelligent.
I enrolled at American Karate School, then located in Hazelwood Missouri. The style my school taught was American Freestyle Tae Kwon Do. It’s central focus was traditional; techniques that had been passed down for an estimated thousand or better years, and meant to teach discipline, honor, humility, integrity, patience, kindness and balance. American Karate also taught practical techniques, and these were borrowed from other styles such as Aikido, Judo, Kung Fu, and so on, much in the way Bruce Lee’s Jeet Kune Do borrows from such styles. So in that sense, I really learned the best of both worlds: traditional and practical. Our school also taught Point Fighting, a non-full contact form of sport martial arts.
I quickly learned that practical martial arts differed greatly from what I saw in the movies. There was no rushing in, fists and feet flying, fancy kicks and mid-air techniques, resulting in whipping twenty three or better opponents at once, as they all just stood there and let the hero beat them. Martial arts is a deceptive dance between two individuals, and a dance that can easily be compared to the game of Chess, but in the end, it is not strategy that wins, but pre-strategy. Pre-visualizing a technique and executing that move with meaning and without hesitation.
In every real martial arts school, the first lesson is always avoidance, often referred to as ‘walk, talk or run.’ In other words, talk them out of it, walk away, or run away. The second lesson is a common series of self defense maneuvers, sometimes referred to has ‘cross his eyes and buckle his knees,’ in other words a patented Moe, Larry and Curly poke in the eyes, followed by a swift kick to the family jewels. Lesson 2 is used only when lesson 1 doesn't work. The remaining of the practical lessons are often an extension of lesson 2, and include blocks, kicks, punches, holds, sweeps, flips, take-downs, you name it. And a martial artist’s skill is always for defense, never to attack. Usually, Hollywood gets that part right. Usually.
Looking back on it all, I maintain the opinion that firstly, I learned how to defend myself. Not how to fight. The difference? I think it was Daniel Larusso himself that claimed he didn’t want to fight. When Miyagi asked him why he was bothering to learn Karate, Daniel replied “So I don’t have to fight.” This was the same, in my case.
When word got out that I was taking Karate lessons, everybody left me alone. There was still talk. There was always the talk, but our Tae Kwon Do school brought me confidence in the knowledge that I could handle myself in a situation like the one that got me into karate lessons in the first place.
I would continue to study American Freestyle Tae Kwon Do for another two years, though unfortunately I dropped out after getting my third degree brown belt. Not a day goes by that I don’t regret dropping out, instead of staying in and getting my black belt. It’s one of my life’s biggest regrets. In ‘95, I watched two of my class mates receive their hard-earned black belts, thinking ‘damn, I should be up there with them.’
Everybody wants to abolish bullying, but I think that it was a good thing I was bullied. It forced me to focus on the weaker components of my personality, eventually deciding to enroll in Karate lessons, which in turn not only taught me self defense, but gave me greater self confidence, courage, strength and muscles, gave me many new friends, and a haven of like-minded people who had been through similar experiences. It made me a better person in many ways. And all because I was bullied. I think, instead of getting rid of bullies, we need to start ridding ourselves of low self esteem. Get your children self defense lessons. It’s the key to a better life for them and for you.
Thanks for reading. Find a martial arts community near you, and take a trial membership. It’s a great workout and a worthwhile experience. Below is the last class picture I had taken. It is from summer of 1992. I had just turned 18, and had put on around 5 or so pounds of baby fat, largely from having taken the summer off to look for a job. I would start my first job shortly after. I would never go back to American Karate again, except to watch two of my friends earn their black belts.
SLiM
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| My 18 year old, acne-laden, badass self! |
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