FIGHTING - PART 2 MIDDLE SCHOOL 1951 - 1953

WHEN FIGHTING WAS ACTUALLY FIGHTING

Middle School Grades (6, 7 and 8)       1951 - 1953

For the record, I never actually attended a Middle School as my formal classes at Our Lady of the Lake extended from Kindergarten through 8th Grade. But permitting me to call grades 6, 7, and 8 my Middle School years provides a more conventional separation of two distinct periods of my life which involved fighting – the Primary Grades (K thru 5) and the Middle School Grades (6, 7 and 8).

Middle School was a difficult time for many reasons. This time evokes a nightmarish continuum of my Mother’s lifetime battle with alcoholism. I believe that during my 6^th, 7^th or 8^th grades was when my Mom’s habit of swimming in her suds became a secretive daily routine. It was such a mysterious routine because while everyone witnessed her drunken antics from about 10 pm in the evening until 3 am in the morning, no one saw my Mom take a drink. That’s correct, for all of those alcoholic years even when she was falling down drunk, not 1 of my 3 sisters, nor my brother nor I EVER caught sight of her imbibing, quaffing, swigging, wetting her whistle, tossing one down, sipping, tippling, guzzling, or partaking of any alcoholic beverage in our home. Birthdays and holidays excluded. That’s no beer, no Scotch, no Rye, no cordials, no liqueurs, no rum, no tequila, no vodka, no gin, no brandy. “IMPOSSIBLE!!,” you say. “IMPOSSIBLE!!”, I say. “IMPOSSIBLE!!”, my sisters and brother say. NOT EVER? LIKE NEVER EVER?? Am I certain of this claim, “NEVER EVER!!” You refuse to believe. I am asking you to BELIEVE THE UNBELIEVABLE. Maybe she went outside, or down to the basement to drink. SORRY! It didn’t happen. Like the Marriage Feast at Cana, the beer and liquor kept flowing, though from whence it flowed, we did not know. We, the 5 children, even knew of the various hiding places in the kitchen and pantry where she stashed her booze. But the consumption of it was yet another secret within our home that was never unraveled.

However, on more nights than I care to remember, from about 10 pm at night until about 3 in the morning, Mom would be in a drunken stupor, ranting and raving in the down-stair’s living room while her husband and 5 children nervously waited upstairs, in their bedrooms on the second floor. Then unannounced, an onslaught was launched with a march from the living room, up one flight of creaky steps and culminated with shouts, curses and pounding upon my Dad’s locked bedroom door. Meantime my brother and I in one bedroom and my 3 sisters in another bedroom, with closed but unlocked doors, were bleary-eyed with a need to sleep but afraid to dose off unknowing what dreadful things might happen. I can still recall, lying awake, afraid of the present and fearful of the future. I would lie on the top level of a bunk bed silently pleading for peace and quiet, while hoping for at least a few hours of elusive sleep. Much needed sleep. It was at this time that I developed the habit of sleeping with both feet uncovered and hanging over the edge of the bed. I had made up my mind that if this crazy woman came into my bedroom, I would be ready to kick her in the face before she could hurt either my brother or me. I was not about to “go gentle into that good night”. Sixty years later, I still go to sleep with my feet uncovered and hanging over the edge of my bed.

If I was angry or upset the following morning. No one would have guessed, as Mom would be in in her neatly pressed housedress, hurrying about the kitchen as she scrambled eggs, toasted bread, cooked oatmeal and prepared our school lunches as if nothing had occurred the night before. Meanwhile, the five children sat at the breakfast table eating normal breakfasts. I’m not sure if I was angry or not because everything had settled down and things seemed as one would hope for and expect in anticipation of the new day.

Damn I guess I was in a lot of fights in Middle School. I never gave any thought regarding the number or the regularity of my fist fights. In general, I never gave a second thought to any fight after it ended. However, there were a few scraps that I can still recall to this day while in grades 7 and 8, a 2-year sojourn that I now can recall with a certain degree of clarity but probably lacking any semblance of objectivity. Unexpectedly, as I write this memoir, I find myself startled at the inordinate number, somewhere between 7 and 9 fist fights that I was involved in during such a short time period.  Who knows? There may have been more. Middle School fights were quite distinct. Unlike my Primary Grades, where most of my fights were questionable and individuals’ names elude me, I clearly recall the names of various combatants in Middle School. In fact, I not only remember the names of the individuals involved, I can recollect the places where the fights took place and the outcome of each fight.

I will describe a few of the more memorable scuffles in no chronological order, as their sequence now eludes me. With the exception of one altercation which occurred in the morning, all of my physical clashes happened in the afternoon; this should be no surprise, as all took place after the normal school day. Furthermore, it is no surprise that by the end of the school day, my normal short fuse did not take much of a spark to ignite.

On one occasion, Oliver P., a big German kid, and I had an argument that took place on the school playground during the middle of a baseball game. Each of us was adamant in our individual conviction about something or other, and soon our convictions escalated to personal insults. We ended the quarrel by agreeing to meet in the park, across the street from the school to settle the matter. Our classmates cheered us on for sticking to our individual beliefs: later, our classmates urged us on with cheering and taunting us to battle in the park. As soon as school ended, a group of 8 or 9 schoolmates accompanied Oliver and me to an area of the park having a small a bridge about the size of a boxing ring. I liked this and felt lucky because I knew how to box and the idea of being confined to such a small area suited me just fine. In another respect, I found myself not so exuberant. Oliver had either physically grown since earlier in the day or I had shrunk since the morning challenge. Oliver looked big, awfully BIG. I knew that if I had any chance to win, I had to hit him fast and hit him hard. With our classmates shouting encouragement, we tentatively moved toward each other in boxer stances. I saw an opening and punched Oliver in the face. He stepped backward and I knew I had hurt him with a solid blow. Unfortunately, at least for me, I also bruised my fist on his jaw and would no longer be able to further use it in the fight. From that moment on, I jabbed, I danced, I backtracked and I circled the big fellow. He kept slowly lumbering forward throwing wild punches. I hoped that he would not connect with any. He didn’t. I continued to ballroom dance; he continued to plod forward; and the crowd became disgruntled. I didn’t care about the crowd. I didn’t care to throw another punch. I didn’t care to throw in the towel. Slowly the crowd dispersed as Oliver and I glared at each other and uttered our final insults. I was relieved as I silently and somberly trudged home. I got lucky.

Then there was the time on Wright’s hill, a small piece of lawn directly behind my garage. Four boys, two friends of mine, myself and a neighborhood boy, Dom D. were gathered together with nothing to do. There was Georgie K. and Larry W., both two years older than Dom and me. Georgie and Larry were constantly in and out of trouble.  Recently I found myself joining them in their various misadventures which had escalated to occasionally breaking the law. Nonetheless, I quickly found myself enjoying their company and living on the edge. Also, I was stupid and easily led with no internal compass pointing me in the direction of right or wrong. On this particular afternoon, Georgie and Larry were bored; so, they fabricated a situation provoking Dom and I to fight. I recognized what they were doing and initially didn’t want any part of their scheme. In no time, I was once again following their lead: I caved in to their plan and found myself facing Dom about to box. We squared off for a boxing match. In less than a minute, I knew that Dom had neither the skill nor stomach to fight. I broke his nose. That evening, Dom’s father called and told my Dad what I had done. My dad said he would take care of the matter, hung up the phone, looked at me and asked “Was the fight you had this afternoon a fair fight?” I told him it was; although clearly it wasn’t. Dad simply stated “Stay away from Georgie and Larry. They’re trouble.” He turned and walked away.

Another fight took place during a Boy Scout weekend camping trip. When I was in seventh grade, I joined the Boy Scouts of America. I don’t know why as none of my friends were scouts, and I really didn’t feel “the calling” to be a Boy Scout.” On the other hand, it was something to do one night a week, and it got me out of my madhouse. When our troop leader, Herr Schmidt announced a weekend camping trip, I signed up for camping skills and for some fun. It provided neither. It rained from the time we arrived at the camp site, and with only a few stoppages, it continued for the next two days. My tent leaked, the ground was wet and my tent-mate knew as much about camping as I. He knew NOTHING. I knew NOTHING. Together we knew NOTHING. We were obviously ill-informed of the Boy Scout Motto, “BE PREPARED.” At least concerning camping. After the second sleepless night, I was not a happy camper nor a pleasant Scout. I began to complain about my experience to anyone who would listen. The Scoutmaster’s son, Herr Schmidt, Jr., who was two years older and bigger than me told me to shut up and go back to my tent. The remark and the lack of sleep set me off. I charged the boy and started to strike him with both fists. Soon we were trading punches. I knew that I was getting the better of him until I felt something clinging to my back and someone hitting me from behind. That someone proved to be no other than the Scoutmaster, Herr Schmidt, Sr. I retreated from the scene of the battle and was immediately banished to my tent. I count this mêlée as two fist fights although I was only able to box the ears of the Scoutmaster’s son. I am confident that given the opportunity, in a fair fight, I would have boxed the Scoutmaster’s ears as well.

Yet another fight took place in front of the church with Raymond J.  We were arguing about some inconsequential matter and soon were standing toe to toe and nose to nose with raised voices and personal insults. I could sense that we were on the verge of a fight. For some reason, although feeling threatened, I did not follow my normal fight instinct of instantaneously throwing the first punch.  Rather, Ray threw the first blow and hit me in the mouth. I responded with a left hook to his eye. After that we hit each other a few glancing blows to the head but mainly we connected with body punches. The punching stopped as fast as it had started. My guess is that both of us were satisfied knowing that we had landed at least one good punch which would be noticeable after the fight. More importantly, we had sent each other our intended message and received a like message in return. We said nothing. We stared at each other, assessed our damage and then backed away. I was the recipient of a fat lip and a loose front tooth. Ray was branded with a black eye. We never fought again, either verbally or physically. 

The only other fight that I vividly am able to call to mind took place with a female classmate who lived just around the corner. Her name was Anna S. We were classmates from kindergarten through 8^th grade. I don’t remember ever talking to Anna. She always looked tired and disheveled. I don’t recall her ever smiling. I think she walked by herself to school and never was with a friend during school. I’m sure that I would have had no reason to remember her except for that one spring day. It was late in the afternoon, and our neighborhood game was almost over. Anna was on one team and me on the other. Something minor happened, and Anna and I got into it. While everyone was standing around, Anna and I kept on arguing and arguing. Not one person in the group taunted us nor said a word. They only looked on. I could feel both of us getting angrier. Neither of us would back down: soon we stood facing each other, no more than 12 inches apart. As our voices became louder and the messages became more abusive, she threatened to punch me. I warned her not to. I told her that if she punched me, I would punch her back.  She said “You wouldn’t hit a girl.” I said “I would so, so don’t punch me.” I’m not sure why, but I didn’t expect her to punch me, so when she did punch me, I didn’t have time to duck or to move back. Her punch hit me square in my eye. I reacted immediately and punched her in the face. She started to cry and walked home. I shouted, “I told you not to punch me.” It was awkward seeing her cry and just standing there watching her walk home. Nobody said a thing.

Subsequent to the Anna S. fight, I never again engaged in any fistfight in any grade.

“that’s all I have to say”

Copyright:  John Pisarra, LOCAL EXPERT     April, May 2016