During a recent get-together with our three sons — one brought his family all the way from Denmark, one brought his spouse from Albuquerque, and the third son brought his wife and kids all the way from next door — our conversation turned to what life was like in our youth.
You first, Dad.
Well, I’ve already written a million words about how it seemed that there was a tough guy on every corner, who set the stopwatch he didn’t own, waiting to pounce on a peace-loving kid from the Railroad Avenue barrio.
Early in life I discovered that an adrenaline rush must have provided reason enough for Gibber, Roy, Trigger and others to take liberties with my face and those of some neighbors. But to report bullying is problematic, for the kids being bullied. Here’s why: On the playground, kids are admonished to report instances in which some halitosis-hexed bully plies his skills.
The bullying persists for several reasons. First, he does so because he can; no bully has ever picked on someone his size or bigger. In addition, bullies enjoy the cheering section, even if they don’t realize that the cheers are really protection insurance, the cheerer’s way of ingratiating himself to the bully in hopes of averting a future victimization.
But in my opinion, the main reason bullies thrive is because they know they won’t be reported. Telling an authority often makes things worse. Sometimes the bully promises the familiar “It’ll be 10 times worse†if the victim squeals.
One teacher I knew would break up the warriors, drag them to a boxing ring and tell them to settle it with gloves on. That’s something the bigger guy welcomes: a chance to pummel someone smaller and even earn the teacher’s approval.
A friend and distant relative once asked me to write a column — naming names — about the intimidation her daughter suffered daily at school. “I’ve been in the principal’s office complaining five times this semester, and my daughter still gets picked on,†she said.
Could that be the reason the bullying persisted? Those who picked on the girl loved watching the girl’s mom marching to school regularly. How’s that for exacerbating the situation? That reality makes it problematic for the parents.
And to demonstrate inconsistency: In my wife’s first job, in an elementary school on the reservation, the principal chided pupils and teachers for failing to report any abuse, but the assistant principal was of the belief that, “I don’t like tattle-tales; take care of the problem yourself; I don’t want to hear about it.â€
But rather than turn this into a school-yard bullying treatise, let’s get back to You First, Dad.
All right. Something in the water must have made many on Railroad Avenue, Pecos Street and Commerce Street big, strong muchachos. Getting to school was a game of trying to outrun mean, wiry boys, and finally reaching a relatively safe place, Immaculate Conception School, where we faced different kinds of issues.
Fleeing from kids in our neighborhood might have explained why I.C. had some respectable track-and-field teams during the few years that our coach, Nick DiDomenico, was around. At I.C., the fights we observed or joined generally ended with the recess-ending bell, and for the most part, the pugilists shook hands, with the understanding that the next day all would be forgotten.
A rare fight that involved me, came six weeks after a classmate named Joe approached on his bike and told me, in front of my small coterie, “As soon as I get rid of this cast, I’m going to beat the (bleep) out of you.†The cast he wore was really a metal splint, girding his middle finger.
Of course, one can’t hit a handicapped person like Joe, so for six weeks, I waited for the splint to come off. The strange part of the arrangement was that there was no reason whatsoever to mix it up with Joe. It was obvious that the finger splint meant he wouldn’t be able to fight — at least not at the moment, but Joe hoped to receive plaudits for issuing the challenge anyway.
So, a grading period later, in view of a handful of schoolmates, Joe, sans the splint, landed a roundhouse right at my face. We all heard a pop, and probably imagined my face had been modified.
No such luck. Joe’s finger got re-broken. No more challenges, no more dares. Joe and I got along from then on.
Though all three of my sons admit witnessing — and occasionally participating in — schoolyard fights, they insist that off-school activities were benign, far from what my generation experienced in our youth. “Is there any place in Las Vegas where you ever feared walking through?†I asked.
All agreed that there were indeed places where one can find trouble, but for the most part, they’ve felt relatively safe in any section of town. My sons, now in their 30s and early 40s, believe that even now, decades after their high school years, this town is safe.
And what did our homeroom teacher, Sister Mary Mucho Cuidado, tell us, back in the ‘40s and ‘50s? “Don’t cross the bridge.†What did some school personnel in West Las Vegas tell their students? Probably the same thing.
• • •
Only 40 miles north, on I-25, rests the pin-dot community of Wagon Mound, my late parents’ childhood haunt. The village has a scrappy basketball team that just this weekend won the third state championship for the Trojans.
They did it by slaughtering other Class B teams in the tournament and in doing so, repeated what their grandparents’ generation did in 1954 and what their parents’ generation did again in 1976.
My days of being bullied were in grade school at San Antonio, N.M., and at Ernie Pyle Junior High in Albuquerque’s South Valley. My son had the same problems at DeVargas Jr. High in Santa Fe. Both of us were late to mature physically. It always distressed me that society then never tried to correct this problem nor was it viewed as a serious problem. I would pick my son up at school, watching for him to exit the front door. But the general attitude then seemed to be a warning from parents: “If he hits you first, you hit him back.” That’s the worst advice I can imagine, and it is still recounted as the best strategy by proud papas who recite their school boy days as the tough underdog.