Altercation in the Highschool Restroom
I. They called me Harvey, Harv for short. Few remembered my full nickname was Harvey Kadiddlehopper, the son of Clem Kadiddlehopper, the hapless county bumpkin made famous by Red Skelton. I earned my nickname by going out for the seventh-grade basketball team. I was terrible. The coach just shook his head when I failed to learn how to pivot. As much as I enjoyed sports, I did not excel. I was not good at the arts either. Tone deaf, I was horrible in music. Mom and Dad would not let me try out for the band.
II. When I reached my high school years, I was fighting off depression. In my early school years, scholastics was one of my strengths. However, as time went on, although I was a good student, it took time and became a struggle. I deemed myself a loser, no good at music, had no artistic talent, was not athletic, did poorly in physical education, and no longer excelled in scholastics. I kept comparing myself to others, a grave mistake I know now but not back then.
It didn’t help that I had a small, skinny frame with little muscular definition. I became the brunt of ridicule, mockery, and hard-hitting insults. My self-esteem was suffering, and I felt I had nowhere to turn for help.
III. Seldom did I use the school’s restrooms. But there was one time after lunch I needed to relieve my bladder. I finished urinating and was at the sink washing my hands. And in comes Dale. Dale, once a good guy, became a hood. Dale was stocky and solid but not a large guy. He was not the proverbial jock. I do not remember him being on any of the team sports. But he became a bully. I did not fear Dale like others, but I did not like the guy.
IV. “Well, if it ain’t Harvey, the wuss!” quipped Dale. With my face facing the mirror and sink and my back to him, I received a punch in the back. It stung but didn’t hurt much. I did not give any hint of pain. I said nothing and ignored him. Then, a second punch to the back. “Yeah, I knew you’re a pansy-ass, smirked Dale. Then, a third punch to my lower back and my right kidney. That one hurt, but I still maintained a calm composure on the outside. Inside, I was raging angry. Surprisingly, I was ready to fight, not make flight. I knew a quick punch in the gut or his face would take him by total surprise. After all, I’m a chicken, passive, and weak nobody.
V. My sixteen-year-old mind was racing with thoughts on what to do and what to say. I knew I could quickly turn around and punch him in the gut or be dirty like him and kick him in the testicles or punch his ugly face. Once Dale was stunned, I could spin around, grab him by the back of the head, and slam his face onto the sink’s edge. I thought to myself, how easy could this be? I would taunt him by saying, “Surely, Dale, you’re not going to tell anybody that Harvey beat the crap out of you, are you? That would be embarrassing, wouldn’t it?”
VI. I asked myself, “What will this prove?” I would no doubt be in trouble, as would Dale. The retaliation would not be worth it. I am not seriously hurt. Dale was trying to provoke me, and I would lose if I let him encourage me to fight. Dale was taunting me, but I ignored him. My morals, my character, my virtues told me no. Fighting would be a low-life way to respond. This incident sparked a sense of well-being and a level of accomplishment.
VII. Finally, I spoke to Dale: “Dale, you’re not worth my time and effort. You’re the loser. Try to have a good day.” I strolled out of the restroom no worse for wear, and a sense of pride swept over me. I felt brave, wise, and sure I had done the right thing.
