I’m sure bullying exists everywhere that there are people. But in some places it is worse than others. When we moved as a family from rural Mount Pleasant to the mill town of North Braddock in the summer of 1963, it was an eye opener. I became aware of how much time boys spend jockeying with one another to determine their place in the pecking order of life. Maybe it was the sheer number of kids all vying for a higher place on that totem pole of physical status and prestige in the neighborhood and with peers. But this was a daily struggle.
There are four quintessential stories that capture my experiences on both ends of this “bully” spectrum, three as victim and one as perpetrator.
The first was an encounter on Walnut Street in 2nd ward. Walnut street was an alley and shortcut to ET field where all the good neighborhood football and baseball games were played and nearby was Ben Fairless elementary school as well. I took Walnut Street not only because it was the logical shortcut that saved time, but it permitted you to avoid Jones Avenue where more potential scrapes with bullies might occur. This experience occurred during the first summer we moved. Some neighborhood kids and I were playing at ET field and headed home in the alleyway when a group of white middle schoolers approach me. There were two black children with me and they were a year or two younger than I was. I didn’t recognize the older boys but it was clear they were from 1st ward. As we move closer to Baldridge Ave., the older boys come around the corner surprising the three of us. There are four of them. The ring leader approaches me and asks, “where you going, Whitey? I ain’t seen you around here before?” As he says this, he grabs me by the front of my polo shirt, pulling me to his chest. He tries to look me in the eye and instinctively I turn my head away trying not to make eye contact. Without thinking, I tried to use a deferential, submissive move to diffuse the confrontation. “Look at me, asshole.” I turn my head only slightly and look at this teenager out of the corner of my eye. He’s got dark unkempt hair, buttoned down short-sleeve plaid shirt, khaki pants and Converse All-Stars tennis shoes. He looked like he just came from school even though it was the summer. “What you doing playing with these niggers? Huh? Say something, f—head.” When I didn’t respond, he quickly moved the belittling remarks to my manhood. He still has a hold of my shirt and says to his buddies, “Look at this asshole. What a pansy! You afraid, little pussy?
When this situation began, the two boys with me were keenly aware that these boys were white and that they had either been taught not to interfere or intervene in white squabbles because it could be much worse for each or both of them. Similar to my deferential move, both boys moved away and would not look directly at what was happening but they did not leave which I was grateful for. Their continued presence may have been the only thing keeping this from getting out of control.
My taunter, continues to hurl various insults all the while pushing me around like a rag doll. The last insult was the one that hurt the most. “You ain’t nothing but white trash, nigger lover. You ain’t good for shit! Get away from me, you faggot!” At that moment he simultaneously pushes me hard and lets go of my shirt. The force pushes me to the ground. I begin to cry. I don’t look up and I can hear the older guys moving away laughing at my softness and lack of aggressiveness.
I get up, dust myself off and straighten my shirt tucking it into my pants. The boys who would not leave me move in on each side of me and without a word walk me home. We walked elbow to elbow to elbow with me in the middle. Our heads are bowed and occasionally each of these guys looks at me to make sure I’m ok. I’m still trying to regain my composure after being humiliated. The walk took no more than 5 or 10 minutes. When we approached the gate and wall in front of my house, they both stopped and watched as I entered my house. I turned to make eye contact as I went through the door, but they were both gone.
It wasn’t until later that I realized what they had done. Their presence and support through this boyhood ordeal was welcome and I felt cared for, relieved. I’m not sure why, but I never saw these guys again. Maybe they were angels!
