white noise

I spent my 1st – 5th grades in Midland School, an elementary school on Broadway Street in Colorado Springs, Colorado. When I was in second grade I had a classmate, Troy, an epileptic boy who was also severely retarded. I’m not sure exactly how handicapped he was, but he’d been held back a grade or two, and I can recall he always had one of those giddy, vacant smiles that said, “I’m listening but half my mind is way off in some happy place.” I envied him that, really.

Troy was a nice kid with a big heart and a gaping, buck-toothed grin, but his differences also made him an easy target for every bully in school. When the staff and teachers realized he’d found an ally in me, they began showing me how to recognize signs of seizures and to help me better understand his under-developed mental capabilities.

Believe me, though, one can’t miss a grand mal seizure and Troy had at least three that I witnessed during our second grade year — I remember them all too well — two on the playground and one in the lunchroom. I remember … putting our jackets under his head. Turning him on his side. Running for a teacher. Holding his hands whenever he started to flail. Telling him he was all right because we were all terrified and uncertain.

Whenever I finished my class work early — which was often — Troy and I packed off to the library where he read Dick and Jane books aloud to me. Our teacher, Mrs. Wilson, explained how it helped improve his reading, but also his social skills because outside of tutoring him, I didn’t treat Troy especially different. Michelle and Sylvia (a.k.a. “Silvertoes”) often helped, and the red headed Kathleen, she came, too, but the other boys in our second grade class rarely interacted with him. Rudy and Gabriel were probably the most accepting of Troy. At least, I never caught them picking on him or saying mean things.

During the first part of the school year, I walked home from school with Sylvia and Troy. My mother moved us around a lot, but at the time we lived on Wheeler Avenue and Michelle and Bobby lived in the opposite direction, north across the culvert, and down Hagerman Street. I get this semi-odd, familiar feeling that “Hagerman” was also Michele’s last name, but I’m not 100% certain.

I was late getting out of class one afternoon, not because I was in trouble (though I suppose it’s possible), but I can’t seem to recall why. Silvertoes left and went on ahead, but Troy waited on the playground, near the basketball courts. I found him there on the ground with three of our classmates, Billy, Richard, and Bobby kicking the crap out of him — for no other reason than because they could. Troy curled up on the pavement with his arms over his head to protect his face. His nose and his lip were bleeding.

I knew I was about to get my ass kicked, and boy did I ever (damn, those boys hit hard!). They pummeled me gleefully dozens of times but, really, I didn’t care. I didn’t intend to fight with them, after all, they were my friends. I only meant to shield Troy and stop them from hurting him, but Bobby wore hiking boots that day, and the damn fool kicked my tailbone SO hard, I couldn’t catch my breath.

And, then I saw red.

There were advantages to being the freakish little runt who ran around at recess wearing cowboy boots and pretending she was a horse (think: Ninja Pony). With one well-aimed mule kick to both, Richard and Billy’s gonads, the party ended for the two of them. Caterwauling like little girls in pigtails, they turned and fled, Bobby followed — I barely missed that wretched little beast’s head with my book. It sailed past his ear, its pages flapping, and I spent five minutes gathering math papers and crayon-outlined geography maps into a pile before stuffing them back inside the front cover, grousing under my breath the whole time.

Troy’s lip was split and he had a bloody nose, but he grinned his broad, goofy smile when I stood him up. “Are you all right, Troy?” He nodded after I asked all three times, despite his shirt being torn and his ribcage sporting a nice half-moon print of Bobby Wilson’s boot. He ran a shirt sleeve over his face and the drying blood smeared across his cheek.

We collected his things, a Six Million Dollar Man lunch pail complete with thermos, a blue backpack with only 3 sheets of homework inside of it, and then started across the soccer field towards home. Parked on the hill, across the field, my mother sat waiting in her beat up two-door Plymouth. She’d seen the whole episode. I was relieved to see her because now we had an adult to take care of us. She’d take care of Troy now and help him get home.

But, that wasn’t the type of woman Mary Ann was and she sent Troy home on his own. “But, he’s bleeding,” I protested.

“I can see that for myself. Get your ass in the car.”

Her words spelled doom. Once the car turned the corner out of Troy’s line of sight, she bounced my head off the passenger side window. “Proud of yourself, are you?” She asked hotly. “You think hitting people is funny?” I didn’t. But, I thought it was necessary.

“They were hitting Troy.” I said, but history is an energetic teacher. Defying my mother would only make matters worse. For the less-than-a-mile drive home, my head became the focus of her animosity and the best I could do was squeeze myself against the passenger door and hope she’d exhaust her violence quickly.

Beyond a drowning herself in the bottle, that was how my mother solved the preponderance of her problems — by resorting to abuse and violence. Even so, today it continues to upset me more that she refused to help Troy, either when the three boys were attacking him or when she saw that he was bleeding. She left me with a fair share of lumps and bumps for having the audacity to jump in and protect him, but if I had to do any of it all over again, I can’t name one thing I’d do differently.

I’ve spent most of my life surrounded by violent, abusive, and aggressive people. All of the people I know whom I’d classify as aggressive, I’d also classify as noble, trustworthy, and honorable. I’d trust my life to them. They’re strong, straightforward individuals who rarely mince words or beat around the bush. Sometimes they show compassion, sometimes not. Sometimes, compared to them, I see myself as a wuss.

But, some of the people passing through my inner circle over the last few years aren’t aggressive, unless one counts passive aggression. They fear emotion, are terrified of anything resembling anger or agression. They’re polite, generally apathetic, almost sterile. Passionless. Forgive me for sounding sound harsh and judgmental, but a handful of them would even cringe, cowering against the walls of some stinking, lower region of hell and watch — wide eyed — while their friends died some horrid, miserable death. I’m not sure what to do with these people. To me, they’re very strange, very alien. Yet, I’ve gone so soft, I begin to believe I might be one of them now.

Lord help me, but I hope not.

If you are one of these intolerant people who sees aggression as the deadliest of sins — remember aggressive people keep you safe. There’s an OCEAN of difference between aggressive and abusive, and although it’s difficult sometimes to tell, let me help you catch a clue. Both aggressive and abusive people rely on force, however, abusive people are normally bullies, willing to hurt any one, anywhere, and for any reason. Aggressive people are mostly law-abiding, and although they’ve been known to tweak the rules to satisfy their own sense of justice, one can still recognize the law within.

Aggressive people are the tough, the stalwart, and the passionate. Yana tells me Jesus was aggressive. Ghandi was, too. While they may have chosen non-violent means of force, they were no less confrontational. They stood up for what they believed in and didn’t give up, give in, or back down when the going got rough for them. They got their tailbones kicked, too.

Aggressive people are the men and women of the armed forces willing to take up those arms and fight in otherworld countries to defend your freedom (and no, I’m not going to debate right or wrong with you here; I’m talking about willingness.). They’re the law enforcers hunting down the drug dealers, thieves, rapists, and serial killers and putting them away, and the corrections officers who keep them behind bars so that our greatest worries are how our caffé lattes are prepared — will that be whole milk or fat free today?

And, for you friends and families of all the aggressive people out there: husbands and wives, sons and daughters, moms and dads — thank you for the sacrifices you must also make. We need our protectors and defenders — our heroes. Thanks for loving them, and for lending them to us, especially for the holidays.

Peace.