Who Doesn't Love a Bully?

We had no programs to stop bullying when I was a kid. Well, those of us constantly in the sites of bullies had our own program, a system really. Stay the hell out of sight. Make no eye contact with the goons—sorry, I’m sure I meant “bullies.”

I am told that the prevailing anti-bullying schemes include “tell an adult.” Are you crazy? What’s one of the fastest ways to get a serious ass kicking? Yeah, this gem of wisdom that tells me to report to an adult the kid who needs no excuse to want to kick my ass. Who’s the idiot who thought up this plan?

You’ve no doubt already noticed that this section of the tale is quite short. If you saw the title above and thought, “Now he’ll tell us stories of bullying and how it made him stronger; tell us about the time that the bullying got so bad that he could no longer be scared. That’s how this ends, with a punch in the nose for one of those damn bullies.” It’s probably not good business practice to insult your customer/reader/patron but, how stupid are you? Life isn't “Disney’s The Kid,” “Back to the Future,” or any of the countless other ridiculous pop culture resolutions. When you get sick of the bully, absolutely go in swinging. Just know that the ass kicking you've worked so hard to avoid all these years is about to come down on you like an anvil dropping on Wile E. Coyote’s head.

This is all you get: the last fight I was in, I lost spectacularly. I had at least a foot of height on him. All he did was to try to kick me in a part of my body for which I had big plans. Finally, he tried one last time to kick me, which is when I finally caught his foot. Great. I've got him, yeah? My reach was much longer than his. I could have punched him like Bandura’s famous Bobo Doll. I never even took a swing. Next thing I know I am on my back with this punk on my chest and punching me. My dad pulled him off and sent him home.

Everyone watching (and who didn't hate me) asked why I didn't hit him. I had no answer—then. Here’s the thing: I've never punched anyone. Like many a boy back in the late 60’s/early 70’s, I had my share of “fights” and altercations. I remember a lot about some of those happy times but the one thing I can’t remember is ever once making contact with my opponent. (The good news is that my opponents rarely landed a punch either.) Because I never won a fight nor even inflict discomfort of any kind, I concluded that I was a coward. Eight years old and carrying that label around is not what Maslow had in mind whilst making his cute little triangle. It was like having a large “C” attached to me. Not like Hester Prynne with an “A” sewn on her dress. My scarlet letter felt more as if it had been sown directly to my skin. Or maybe it was tattooed on my forehead.

Many years and successful sessions later, I realize that I have never been violent. I hate it. It is the shittiest and shallowest strategy for dealing with disagreement. I once heard a lady say, “I just can’t understand how violence can be an appropriate response to another human being.” That’s who I've always tried to be—a person of peace. I would have proudly worn a scarlet “P.” No one told me it was an option.

Here endeth the lesson.

Wet Wood

I “published” this piece in an earlier version of this space. When I posted it, I had no idea why I did it. This time, I know exactly why I am sharing it. Of course, I will no sooner tell you that reason than I would tell you what the poem “means.” I know what I meant all those years ago when I wrote it. But I have changed considerably since 1987. I wonder what the poem means for me now. I wonder what it might mean for you.

Wet Wood

Heat dances across glowing embers

The wood crackles loudly as it shoots darts

There’s heat—but not enough

There’s fire—but not much

The wood is wet

It dampens my heart as it dampens my fire

Though I work feverishly

Though I work endlessly

The blaze is rarely glorious

And the time spent in the warmth of the glow

Is always too short

The wood is always wet

And it dampens my heart as it dampens my fire.

Andrew Kronenwetter

1987

Tell Us a Story?

Have I ever told you about the time Glenn put a smoke bomb in Billie’s tool box? No? It’s a great story. You might not believe this but I have actually had a few jobs that involved almost nothing but manual labor. One of those gigs was at a car stereo shop. Glenn was the boss. At the tender age of 23, he was the oldest employee and only slightly more mature than the rest of us. We did lots of really stupid stuff, some of which involved fireworks. This one time, Billie is working on some car and has his tool box on the roof of the car. Mature Glenn remembers that he still has a smoke bomb left over from the time a customer came in with a trunk load of fireworks—most of which we bought and then used to have a fireworks fight in the shop! So Glenn decides he’ll sneak over and put the smoke bomb in Billie’s box. So, he lights the thing and drops it in Billie’s tool box, closes the lid, and slips away. We’re all waiting for the smoke to start pouring out when there’s a BOOM, followed immediately by sockets and screw drivers and other small tools raining down all over the shop! Turns out that smoke bombs and cherry bombs look a lot alike. I wish you could have seen that tool box! What had just seconds before been rectangular was now nearly round—and without a lid.

Nice story, yeah? Is it true? Absolutely. Is everything in the story historically accurate? Who cares? Stories aren’t true because they accurately present facts. How boring is that? No, stories are true by connecting us in the great big story that is our lives. Admit it; I had you at “Have I ever told you about the time . . .” Why? Because humans are story-tellers. It’s not what we do, it’s who we are. That’s what this “blog,” this wee tiny corner of cyber land is all about.

I am an ally and an advocate for social justice. It has been my life’s work. But I have for too long tried saving the world on Facebook and previous versions of this blog. I will forever fight the good fight for social justice, for peace, for equality; I just won’t do it here anymore. Long before I answered the call to take a stand for Truth, I was busy telling the truth through stories. I don’t know how not to tell stories. I think it’s the same for you. Because we are story-tellers. It’s how we remember where we’ve been as a species and who we are as beings in the enormity of space and time.

So, if you want political arguments, meet me at the pub of your choice (that’s near me) and you can buy us drinks all night and we’ll talk politics. But, it will still be an evening of stories. How could it not be?

We are story telling animals, “homo narrans.” That’s what’s going on here. Stories of all kinds, all true simply by being told.

So I’ll be telling you stories. Not all will look like stories. Some might look more like an essay. Still a story. On very rare occasions, I’ll share something that might resemble poetry (or not). Still a story. Sometimes every word you read will be historically accurate as far as my memory can go. Sometimes not a single word will have any historicity. Still true. And please don’t bother asking; since “accuracy” is irrelevant, you needn’t worry about figuring out what’s historical and what’s not. Still stories. Still true.

And maybe sometimes you’ll share a story.

Have I ever told you about the time . . .

"KIDSRGON"

“Lisa, look at that vanity plate on the car in front of us.” “Which car?” “Um,” I begin without thinking (hardly a first for me), “The car with the only plate we can see.” She looks at me with a crooked smile. “Smart ass.” The smile tells me to take “smart ass” seriously but also tells me that if I should happen to die soon in my sleep, it will likely be natural causes. “What about it? What’s it say? KIDSRGON.” Some people just shouldn't be allowed to make their own vanity plates.

“Kids are gone; that’s what it says,” Lisa translates for us. I begin my editorial/sermon/hell fire and brimstone remarks. “I can’t believe that. How much can you hate your kids that you’d joyfully announce their departure—on a license plate, no less?” I was really bothered by that plate and the attitude I assumed it communicated. “I’ll be sad when our kids are all gone,” I hear my holier-than-though voice say. Lisa gives a “hmm” that is about as ambiguous as ambiguous can be.

Our Baby Girl signed the lease for her apartment the other day. For her first, very own apartment. Leena, our oldest, hasn't lived “at home” since 1996. She lives far away and has her own family. Maybe we live too far away, “way the hell west” of the whole country. Thaddaeus and Jared have both been gone for two years.

This weekend, “KIDSRGON.”

This is where you are thinking, “Now his eyes are open and he’s gonna tell us how happy he is.” Only a wee bit right. I am happy that Tabitha is embarking on her own as an adult. It’s been a long time coming. She’s excited. I’m excited for her. But, even if we had a car, I still wouldn't want a plate celebrating our empty nest. Many days I feel the mist and tears welling up in my eyes and I do my best to hold them back until no one else is home. I still think those folks all those years ago are full of shit.

OK, in fairness, I can’t possibly know anything about them from that plate. Tongue in cheek? A gift from the kids who are gone? Hell, as they sat at the light waiting to turn right onto Rochester Road, maybe they were headed to I-75 to go visit kids and maybe grandkids. Nevertheless, I’d never sport a plate like that. I’d never want anything that suggested that I’m glad to have them gone. All four are where they need to be. However challenging, they need to be living their lives. I rejoice that all four have more or less survived me. God is good. God gave us Lisa to keep us alive!

The heart’s a funny thing. It can hold several emotions at the same time. Even when some of the emotions are strong; even when some of the strong emotions are opposites. My heart is full of joy for our kids. My heart is full of joy for Lisa and me because we will also be moving on to the next stage in our life. We got married too soon (maturity, not years). We started having kids too soon (please refer to previous parenthetical statement). It’s time for our time.

Everything is as it should be. But it’s all wrong.

I think I thought we’d all be together all our lives. We’d just get a really big house so each family had its space but that we were still together. Families used to do that, no? But it’s not to be.

Our nest will soon be inhabited by Mama Bird and Papa Bird (did I really just write that?) and no baby birds. We’ll all adapt. We’ll all grow.

But I think the misty eyes and tears won’t go away soon.

Or ever.