WARNING: Real-life details are present, please do not read if you are squirmish about school fights.
I had flashbacks today, Remembering The Great Fight. It all happened in grade six. We had one popular boy who was a bit weird. Let's call him Norman. One day, he found a metal rod and threw it at another boy from my class. The boy who got hit - his head got split open, and blood gushed out. It happened at school.
"You're bleeding," everyone called out.
The poor boy held his head in shock as he tried to understand what happened to him. Now, I don't know what happened after, but due to that fact, I deemed Norman weird. I kept my distance from him.
Staying away from him ended up harder than I thought. I sat on the bench during my gym class as usual, you know, because of my back problem and thus restricted mobility. And let's not forget my authority figures at home who refused to purchase me any clothes, let alone a gym shirt. By then, other students hated me because the teacher announced everyone was failing gym class because of me.
So, I sat on the bench, and Norman, who threw a metal rod at another boy from my class, now stood before me. Norman stood twenty centimetres away from my face and mumbled something.
Next, Norman slapped my face.
I slapped him back because my authority figures at home always beat me up, and I had no chance to stand up for myself because I feared they would kill me. It was my chance to stand up for myself. He slapped me again. I slapped him back.
We were both in grade six. I was eleven years old, and Norman was twelve. I was short, just about a metre tall. Norman was the oldest and tallest boy in my class.
The gym teacher screamed at Norman and at me because she loathed me. Norman turned neurotic; his eyes ran and went home early. One girl from my class told me that Norman could wait for me on my way home to beat me up. She knew this because she had two much older brothers. That girl from my class accompanied me for 90 percent of the walk, and I told her I would probably be okay walking one block home. She left home, and I was alone. I felt I was imposing much and feared for her safety too.
Out of nowhere, Norman jumped to beat me up. He knew exactly where I lived.
He hit me, and I hit him back. There were hits back and forth. I hit him back so hard that I punished him for every person who made me feel salty. He hit me in my stomach, and I was ready to whoop him into yesterday - a payback to my authority figures.
Everything slowed down.
One second seemed to me like forever.
My thoughts echoed loud: "If you hit him now, Norman may get hurt more than he expected." And yet other ideas were, "When would Norman stop hitting people, what's his plan?" Yet other thoughts were, "Sandy, you are a good person remember that your grandparents know you are worthy, better than your authority figures at home, you are a diamond in the rough - remember that. You are Sandy!"
It was clear that I wanted him to stop hitting or anyone else ever. Norman (based on his craziness, I had gathered) wanted me to hit him so that he would hit me again to get his neurotic rush.
Norman looked like a madman. I sprinted from the location. Norman stood lost; it seemed he didn't understand why I ran home. He expected and wanted to hurt me some more.
Looking back, he must have planned this for months. Hitting him back just fed his loop of tyranny.
At home, my authority figures announced that I was 40 minutes late. They never looked for me, but I did not anticipate anything good from them. To look cool, they grabbed me straight to the police. I guessed they wanted me to get arrested. At the police station, Norman was already there with his mother. I needed to understand how everyone got there so quickly. The police department building was on the other side of the village.
The policewoman asked me only one question, "Did you hit Norman back?"
I thought for some crazy reason that I'd get arrested.
I stood speechless, my words crammed (I was hit by authority figures when saying anything, and they stood next to me). I must have had a billion bruises on my mouth, face and everywhere else from them. Some of my veins never healed from them, even many decades later, even up to now. I even started stuttering from that, but now only when I am stressed.
Anyway, at the police department station, I knew I was a truth and justice-driven person. I said, "What?"
Norman stood handcuffed next to a policeman. This reality hit me hard, I was petrified, but no one cared about me or my feelings. Authority figures wanted to collect sympathy from others; that's why they went to the police - to look cool too.
The policewoman asked me again, "Did you hit Norman after he hit you?"
Another policeman leaned in too. I saw Norman's mother trembling in tears in the corner. His father was never there.
"Yes," I said.
"Then, Norman is not going to jail today." The policeman announced.
"No jail for Norman." The policewoman repeated as they uncuffed him.
Norman's mother's face was all cried out. Her eyes were puffy, and tears kept pouring down her face. She had no idea how to help Norman and teach him right from wrong.
That's how I saved Norman from going to jail. I hate this fact to this day. I bet he already had a record from the police from when he broke another boy's head open with a metal rod.
The next day, a few boys from my class told me they were proud that I stood up for myself.
Both Norman and I had bruises. Because Norman wore shorts, his mother complained about his bruises to the principal, and I saw the whole thing when I passed by the principal's open door; I saw the bruises I had made.
Unlike Norman, I wore long pants and a long shirt that covered my bruises. I looked untouched.
I walked around the school premises, away from everyone, on the breaks because I avoided interactions from that point on. I felt safe by myself.
Lesson?
There's no lesson here, I felt terrible that I saved Norman from going to jail, but I felt good I had a chance to stand up for myself. I had to suppress the me-standing-up-for-myself in front of authority figures at home all the time, every second, every minute, every hour, every weekday and weekend, every month, and year by year.
Norman did not hit another peer in my class again. Maybe Norman had a lesson that sometimes people defend themselves or that next time he was going to jail.
Why did I remember this? A colleague thought I had made a mistake, and she followed me and hit my shoulder. It happened after I had explained that there were no mistakes, but I will double-check just in case. The paperwork ended up correct. The colleague was wrong.
Now I had to explain to a 47-year-old woman that hitting people is wrong.
I reminded her that we were on the same team, that it did not matter if anyone made a mistake, and that we all worked together to make all projects go smoothly and help each other.
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