I dreaded school—you never knew what might happen. In the classrooms or the hallways, there would be a fight.
Sometimes I’d cower away from it all so that I wouldn’t get hurt, but pain always seemed to find me. It was particularly hard in the schoolyard. It was as if kids waited for recess just to go out and fight. The teachers had no control over this epidemic.
My disease, however, seemed to be with a young boy named Rocheet, a black skinny kid who often had pieces of leftover lunch poking out from between his crooked yellow teeth and a hair pick wedged into his baby afro. He loved to pick a fight with me. Rocheet hated me, people, and even birds because they were free.
Yet, I had a distorted respect for him, maybe because he would not quit a fight. Even if I mangled his face, Rocheet would still come back for more.
I would rank him up with some of the greatest fighters, like Rocky Marciano or Muhammad Ali, except he didn’t fight fair and rather enjoyed using me as his punching bag.
Rocheet looked over with a smile as if he was happy to see me, but I knew he was only delighted about the hate that flowed through his veins toward me and the idea of gearing up for another fight.
“Eddie?” he said.
“Whatta you want?”
He gave a crazy snarl and said, “I feel like fighting.”
“Rocheet, leave me alone.”
“You got lucky last time, Eddie. This time, I’m gonna get lucky. C’mon!” he challenged, motioning me to come closer. “Let’s dance.”
“What’s to prove today?” I said.
“No proof, Eddie. You just scared?”
My smile faded as I sensed the hatred in his voice, shaking my head in disbelief.
“Rocheet, if you don’t stop, I’m gonna kill you.”
“Bring it, Spam boy!” he said, slumped down and awkwardly threw his fists up.
I glared with fury in my eyes, and then I danced toward him, grabbing his skinny neck and using my weight to force him to the ground.
“Ah!” Rocheet yelled.
“Had enough?” I shouted, squeezing the air from his body with my right arm wrapped tightly around his scrawny neck. “You had enough!”
“Let go! Let go,” he pleaded. “Okay! I had enough! I had enough!”
As soon as I let go, he jumped to his feet and declared, “C’mon! Let’s fight!”
“You gotta be kidding me,” I replied, exasperated.
“C’mon!” he shouted, motioning me to come closer. “C’mon, white boy!”
Most Hispanics in our neighborhood were Puerto Ricans with dark complexions. I seemed to have the lightest skin of anyone, which gave reason for the neighborhood bullies to harass me.
I made a grumbling sound and lunged at him, grabbing his neck and pinning him to the ground like a wrestler. He plunged his fingers into my eyes as I repeatedly punched him in the face. I reached up and tore his hand down and out of my eyes before biting his fingers.
He squirmed out from under me and jumped into a Bruce Lee stance, brushing his thumb over his nose. He brought his head down and charged at me like a raging bull, knocking me backward into the ground.
“Ah! You bit my arm!” I yelled, knowing if I didn’t do something to stop him, he would fight even dirtier. I leveraged my hands under his chest, and then with all my might, pushed him over, jamming my fingers into his eyes.
He begged me to stop, but I wouldn’t.
Now I was going to teach him a lesson. Then he got loose again. I tackled him to the ground and pounded his face. As Rocheet lay there protecting himself, an evil grin formed from his face.
Rocheet pleaded, “I quit! I quit!”
“You promise? Say you promise.”
“I promise! I promise!”
I jumped off him once again, hoping it was over.
“I’m gonna kick your ass, Eddie.”
I shouted, “Don’t you ever give up?”
I rushed toward him as anger bubbled up from my stomach. He looked at me, eyes wide with shock. I tackled him to the ground as we fought like animals.
A teacher rushed over and shouted, “Stop it! Stop it!” forcing her skinny arms between us as the blood from my arm trickled over her hands. I jumped to my feet, ready to go another round and moving in to hit him when the teacher snatched me by my arm and pulled me aside. “That’s enough, Eddie.”
“He started it!”
“I don’t care who started what. I’m sick of you two fighting! Both of you, come with me.”
Half running to keep up with her long strides, we followed the teacher into the principal’s office. Bruised up, scraped, and tired from fighting, we sat there waiting for him to talk. My eyes peered intently at the gaunt solitary figure sitting in his stitched woven chair.
The principal hovered over his desk, flicking his pen, and finally said, “What is it with you boys?” The principal thought for a moment and then said, calmly, “Almost every day, Rocheet, you feel this need to fight Eddie. And Eddie, almost every day, instead of reporting him to one of the teachers, you indulge him in a fight.
What am I supposed to do? I could expel you, but I don’t think that would do any good. I tell you what I’m gonna do. I’m gonna suspend both of you for a day and speak with your parents.”
“He started it!” I exclaimed, glaring at Rocheet, pointing my finger at him. “He always starts it!”
Rocheet snickered an evil laugh.
“Settle down!” the principal interjected. “I don’t care who started it. You’re both going home to cool off. Next time I see you, maybe you can get along. Now I want both of you to shake hands and promise you won’t fight again.”
At first Rocheet seemed hesitant, but he reached his arm out to me with his head partially down. Then, behind his black veil of silence, he smirked before extending his hand for me to shake. “Sorry,” Rocheet said.
I was shocked but cautious. “Me too,” I responded.
But Rocheet’s peace gesture wasn’t about repentance; it was just a stall until the next time we met on the playground.
Upon leaving the principal’s office, I looked intently at Rocheet, noticing the holes in his shoes and the ragged secondhand clothes he wore. I began to feel sorry for the enemy who annoyed me every day of my life. I believed that somewhere in his heart, there was good, and maybe fighting was the one way he thought people would respect him.
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