One spring day, walking to school with my friend Richie, we faced a moment that dramatically affected the trajectory of my life. Richie, intelligent yet socially awkward and an easy target for bullies, found himself in the crosshairs of Mark, a known tormentor. The encounter unfolded with a cruelty that still echoes in my mind.
“Hey Richie,” Mark sneered, a predatory grin on his face, “tell me, why are you so fat?”
Richie, in hindsight because he might have been on the autistic spectrum, innocently mistook the insult for a genuine query and began to explain childhood obesity's causal factors. Frustrated, Mark shoved him hard, almost toppling him over.
“Don't go all Spock on me, brainiac,” he mocked.
As I stood there, witnessing Richie's torment, a crucial part of my own story began to take shape. It wasn't just about the physical confrontation that ensued, where I found myself instinctively defending Richie. It was about the broader battle against bullying, against the injustices we face in our lives, and how these moments can shape our lives so that they better reflect Christ's teachings of humility, compassion, and brotherly love.
A Fateful Decision
Mark taunted, “You're a big fat tub of lard and you know what I think? I think you should try and hit me!”
“Oh no,” Richie pleaded in shock and dismay, “No physical violence!”
I winced internally and thought, “Oh Richie my dear friend, don't respond to him, you're only making matters worse!”
Mark laughed maniacally and shoved Richie again, this time with even greater force, causing him to fall to the ground and burst into tears.
My heart ached for Richie, and I quickly intervened, positioning myself between the two and pushing Mark away. “Hey, you jerk!” I yelled at him. “Why don't you pick on someone your own size?”
Mark's reaction, a mix of surprise and scorn, was like pouring fuel on the fire of my indignation. “Like YOU?” he challenged, “In your tired old hand-me-downs!? No wonder this freakshow is the only one who will hang out with you!” His jeer cut deep.
In that moment, fear was overridden by a surge of adrenaline and a fierce sense of justice. My response was instinctual, primal—a flurry of wild swings, driven more by emotion than technique. It was a scene reminiscent of A Christmas Story, where Ralphie unleashes his pent-up fury on Scut Farkus. But this was no scripted tale of childhood triumph; it was raw and unfiltered.
The skirmish ended with my physical victory, but at a deeper level, it was a profound defeat. Mark, though overpowered, remained defiantly unrepentant and I, in defending my friend, had unwittingly set foot on a path where fists replace dialogue. This encounter epitomizes a bitter truth—that resorting to violence, even in defense, not only perpetuates a cycle of hostility but also slowly and insidiously erodes the moral fabric of the soul.
The Fight Club
Thrust unexpectedly into the limelight, not through ambition but due to my impulsive, knee-jerk reaction, I found myself in the unenviable position of being the school's new top contender. Previously, my challenges at school had been more about enduring razzing for wearing hand-me-downs, a kind of adversity that, while painful, hadn't prepared me for what was to come. This pivotal event marked a dramatic escalation. It was a role I had not sought—yet suddenly, I was the one everyone aimed to beat.
My new status came with a set of unspoken rules and harsh realities. In this survival-of-the-fittest environment, showing any sign of weakness was not an option. Those who ran away would only become an even bigger target for bullies like Mark and company, who prey upon weak and easily intimidated kids like wolves preying upon the stragglers in a herd. Seeking out someone in authority to intercede is no solution either. You are not only branded a coward, but also a snitch; the lowest of the low. Not just by kids, but even many adults.
This fact was exemplified the day I was cornered by three bullies while walking home. In a desperate bid for safety, I turned to a “Block Parent”—a home marked as a sanctuary for children in distress. But when I rang the doorbell, the man who answered dismissed me with chilling indifference: “Fight your own battles, kid.” This brutal rejection felt like being callously thrown to the lions, exacerbating the fear that had become my constant companion and starkly highlighting the absence of support or understanding in what should have been a safe haven.
In reflecting on this incident, I can't help but draw parallels to the dire situations in schools today. The same kind of relentless bullying that I faced, both physical and psychological, still exists, driving those like Richie, who lack the means or will to stand up for themselves, to desperate measures.
It's an alarming reality that in today's world, the inability to defend oneself in such an environment can lead to tragic decisions, like bringing weapons to school. This underscores the urgent need for empathy, understanding, and effective intervention in our educational systems, to prevent such dire outcomes and to protect the Richies of the world.
Cinderella Man
Music often serves as a refuge, a lifeline in times of distress, offering comfort and inspiration when it's needed most. Growing up in a world marked by cruelty and hypocrisy, A Farewell to Kings by Rush became that lifeline for me. The album's powerful lyrics, with their themes of unity and authenticity, struck a deep chord. Listening to it was like discovering a kindred spirit, someone who understood my struggles and offered solace and renewed purpose.
The song “Cinderella Man” from this album narrates the tale of a modest man who, upon gaining wealth, chooses to use it for the upliftment of the less fortunate. Despite facing ridicule from the elite who dismissed his actions as folly, he remains unwaveringly committed to his altruistic cause.
Since defending Richie had made me a social outcast like Cinderella Man, I concluded, naively, that wealth was what I needed to acquire to foster greater awareness of bullying and support genuinely effective initiatives to address it—unlike the Block Parent one that had let me down.
The Turning Point
But something else happened in those years — something far more subtle and far more dangerous than bruises, broken friendships, or humiliations.
All that fear…
all that adrenaline…
all that “stand your ground or die trying” survival instinct…
it didn’t stay in childhood.
It followed me.
It hardened me.
It trained my heart to strike first, speak second, and trust no one.
And once a heart learns that rhythm, it becomes almost impossible to unlearn. It feels normal. It feels justified. It feels like strength… even when it’s actually bondage.
What I didn’t understand back then — what I couldn’t understand — was that every fight I won on the outside was shaping a war on the inside. And that internal war didn’t end when school did. It matured with me. It traveled with me. It bled into adolescence… and later, into adulthood… until one day, God forced me to look honestly at the man I had become.
Not the bullied kid. Not the defender. Not even the so-called “scrapper.”
But the man who had learned to hide behind toughness, silence, and self-reliance — the man whose instinct to survive was slowly killing him.
The real battle — the one that would take decades to face — wasn’t with Mark, or bullies, or the world around me.
It was with me.
And that battle is where the next chapter of my story begins.