The afternoon would likely end in violence. Two boys who had taunted Shawn before outside the schoolhouse now exited the park and followed not far behind him. Shawn quickened his pace. If they meant trouble, he would not run but would try to avoid an unnecessary confrontation if at all possible. It was a matter of principle. He had to hurry. His home was at the bottom of the next hill, and his older brother might wait there.
Shawn wondered what the boys could have against him.
He was popular among their classmates in the red brick school they all attended, one built on a leveled mound in the shade of stately oak trees that grew in the park. The setting was a vestige of the Old South: a Greek-revival style building populated with the offspring of people who had everything in common. They held the same kind of jobs in Memphis, attended both kinds of churches--Baptist and Methodist. Their children joined the same Boy Scout and Girl Scout troops. They played football in the park in the fall and baseball in the spring. When it snowed, the park hills were a winter carnival for joyous kids who sled together and gathered 'round campfires into the night. Doors were often left unlocked. Conflicts were generally unheard of.
Shawn was bigger than most of his peers and never had had a problem before. This was probably a result of the fact that he grew faster and liked to eat. Consequently, the football coaches loved him, but he was known to look out for the smaller children, a gentle bear of a lad. His grades were good. He was considered to be the school artist, able to render beautiful promotional posters for the library and murals for the classroom, dinasaurs for his friends, and valentines for the pretty girls he had crushes on. He didn't seem to have an enemy. Why were these two so angry?
Shawn turned into his driveway toward the end of the street and glanced back. The boys were still a couple of houses behind him. He had just made it! Shifting his attention to the driveway again, the young boy halted his steps. His big brother stood at the top of the hill, in the middle of the drive, feet apart and fists on his hips. He glowered at his younger sibling.
"Well," he demanded. "What are you going to do about this?"
"Wha... What do you mean?" Shawn asked.
"You know what I mean!", his brother barked. "There are those two hoodlums again, the trash from the other side. If they call you one more name, you are going to fix it--today, or I'm going to beat you myself!"
Shawn knew this was no idle threat. He moved beside his brother just as the two boys crossed his driveway entrance.
"Hey, Jethro!", one called out. "Don't run to your big brother for help. We won't hurt you too bad!"
Shawn recognized them as being from the impoverished area beyond his neighborhood.
For some reason, most of the children in the subdivision were boys. They had waged an ongoing "war" with the kids from the poor side of town. Battles were waged in the woods on vacant lots at the end of his street, at night after the street lights came on. Shawn's brother assumed leadership of their forces. He called conferences in the log cabin, tool shed their father had built in the backyard. The boys from his street conferred there to plan their attacks. They schemed and plotted; in candlelight, tales of imagined insults and treachery fueled their desire for vengeance.
Once their foes had been spotted in the woods, impassioned youths swarmed like hornets out into the night. They hid behind parked cars and hedgerows and advanced breathlessly to the tree line, mimics of the soldiers they saw every night on the news from a distant place calledVietnam. En masse, they would hesitate. Someone would give the signal. With war whoops, the trible would run through the woods and scream, banging sticks on tree trunks and throwing fire crackers or the spined pods from sweetgum (gumball) trees. They would advance and withdraw again and again until everyone was exhausted and drenched in sweat. No one was ever seriously hurt. It was supposed to be all in fun. What was this, now, about?
Shawn's brother gave him his best stern commander look. "They're waiting at the bottom of the hill," he said. "You know what to do."
Shawn slowly walked down to the smart-mouthed boy in front. He obeyed orders without feeling or thought, like a ghost of someone else in his clothes. "Hey!", the other boy exclaimed. "What do you think you're doing, hero?"
Resigned, Shawn stood silently in front.
The boy reared back a clenched hand to strick. However, before he could bring it around, he stopped suddenly. Something had struck him hard in the face.
Shawn blinked and looked forward. It was his own fist. What felt like a nose crunched under his knuckles. Blood gushed out. The boy crumpled to the ground and knelt in humiliation and pain, hands covering his face.
His friend helped him to his feet. After a moment, they staggered off, like drunks, to their shabby houses beyond the trees.
Shawn's brother came down and put a hand on his shoulder. Together, they watched the pitiful retreat in silence. "That trash had it coming," his brother finally said. I knew you had it in you. You make me proud."
Shawn didn't feel proud. He felt sick. The strength he had always known was absent. In its place was shame. He had perceived the failure in the other boys. What he now understood probably motivated their behavior. It was the shame of acquiescence: to weakly give up and give in to the senseless brutality of an unjust world. It was a lesson he would never forget.
J. Wallace
