My First Ass Whooping

Okay:

I grew up in an upper middle class neighborhood in northwest Washington, DC. Because I am curious, I found a way to become a delinquent. But had I followed the path that was laid out for me, I'd probably be a lawyer or an accountant.

That is not to say that I am a tough guy. Not hardly.

My delinquent period centered around drug and alcohol abuse and promiscuity and general oppositional defiance. Not violence and crime.

But having grown up in, what was then, the murder capital of the country, I was constantly faced with the challenge of proving myself. Sometimes I had to fight. Most of the time, I avoided it.

When pressured, I could put up a good enough fight so that it didn't happen again. But if the opportunity to walk away presented itself, I always took it.

I do, however, have quite the temper. It's buried down deep inside and difficult to get to. But once you're there, God help both of us! Such is the way of the passive-aggressive personality type.

My aversion to violence comes from a rather tragic childhood experience.

When I was in the fourth grade I had a crush on the girl who lived across the alley. She was a cutie! She had hazel eyes, which I thought meant something in my younger and less enlightened days.

Anyway. I wasn't her type.

I was short and socially awkward. I read comic books, watched musicals and listened to gangster rap. And my high-top fade wouldn't grow past an inch and a half.

And I couldn't dance.

And my teeth were bucked.

And I had a lisp.

She, however, was a flawless vision. I saw her a few summers ago when I was temping downtown though. And I'm happy to say that she is no longer cute enough for me. She has adult acne and problematic hair.

But I digress. There was the crush initially.

We were in the same class. Mrs. Williams was our teacher. A tall overweight white woman with short-cropped hair, lesbian style, and a big fat green wart on the back of her neck.

An adopted Thai kid named Peter was also in our class. He never said much. Kept to himself. I barely knew him.

One day we were on the playground, lining up to re-enter the building after recess. I, being the bad ass that I was, was playing a fun game. I was running down the line and smacking everyone on the top of the head. Seemed like a good idea at the time.

What I did not know then, is that it is considered a grave insult in Thai culture to touch someone on the top of the head.

How could I have known?

The next thing I knew my back was on the wall and Peter was giving me the beating of a lifetime.

The teachers separated us and let us come back inside without making a big deal of it. No principals office. No phone calls home.

Once inside, we were all sitting at our desks. I was still sore and pouty. The little hazel-eyed cutie was passing out our afternoon worksheets. When she got to my desk she leaned in and giggled, "You got your ass whooped."

I suppose I learned my lesson early on and should be grateful. There have been numerous situations since then where, were I inclined to strike, I could have landed myself in some pretty deep shit.

So, really, I have her to thank.

And she has those unsightly pimples as reward.

Peter, however, has an ass-whooping coming to him.


Thanks for reading.



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Confession: I've got a short list of people who have ass whoopings coming to them should the opportunity ever present itself. What about you?