Heroics

There’s a word people use when someone puts their body between aggressive, strong people and peaceful, weak people. I don’t like to use this word to describe anything I’ve done because it sounds like I think more of myself than I do.

When Jesus said, “Let he who is without sin cast the first stone.” He was talking to people who already had their pockets full of stones. They could easily have said, “Oops, I hit the country rabbi instead. My bad.” Within weeks, the same people would set Barabbas free and see Jesus crucified. We say that word so much that we forget what it actually implies.

I hate to ever intercede on someone’s behalf. It always always feels like a mistake. It always, always feels like I should mind my own business. I should always, always, always let people solve their own problems, even if it looks like it’s unfair… “HEY! I SAID STOP THAT!”

My father never used to sleep through the night. Coming to the kitchen in the wee hours, he caught me standing over the sink with a bag of frozen English peas over my eye socket.

“Hey, bud. Is there something you want to tell me?”

“Not really. Don’t tell Mom.”

“Are you in trouble?” He asked.

“I doubt it. It’s probably over for now.” I said.

“Am I gonna hear any more about this.”

“One of the boys said I had no right to judge him because of who I am. I said I didn’t judge him because of who I was but because of what he did.”

“What is it he did?”

“I dunno…”

“What did he do?”

”He called Walter a fag.”

“Is Walter a fag?”

“I dunno.” I said, with a shrug.

“You said ‘boys.’ How many are we talking about?”

“Well, there was me, and there was Walter, but I told him to stand back. He’s pretty small.”

“What about the other boys?”

“I’m pretty sure there were three.”

“Pretty sure?”

“yeah.” I said.

“How’d they make out?” My father said, lifting the bag of peas to look at my eye.

“One of them made a sound when I bent his hand back,” I said.

“What about the other two?” Daddy asked.

“One got hit pretty hard. The other ran off.”

“Put some ice on your hand. It’s pretty purple. Your eye’s not cut. Your ear’s gonna hurt. There was more to this fight than you’re telling me.”

“Maybe.”

“Where’s Walter?”

“He’s home.”

“I don’t know his family.”

“His father works for the state. I think he’s a geologist or something. They haven’t lived here long.”

“Take the ice with you upstairs. Get some sleep. Don’t tell your momma.”

“I won’t.”

Fathers know when you gotta take an ass-whooping. Momma’s don’t usually care for it. I’ve lost teeth doing this. I found ways to explain it away. Violence feels fun when you’re doing it. I don’t like to admit that.

Nobody likes to be the weak, the unjustly picked on, the way somebody makes themselves stronger without actually doing anything. It helps when there’s somebody like me on their side, but honestly, not that much.

I’ve never known anyone who was never unjustly attacked. I don’t understand why they would then do it to others. People work in cycles, I guess.

I don’t know what happened to Walter. I hope he doesn’t think of that night at all. What I did doesn’t matter because I’m pretty sure he’d remember what the other boys said, and I’d rather he not remember that.

Heroes don’t do it to be remembered. They do it to change what’s happening at that moment. You can’t really change it, though. Sometimes, you can keep somebody from doing more damage than they’ve already done, but that’s about it. You can’t ever make it so the innocent was never attacked.