The
Two Davids
by
David Hagerty
Like most men, I learned the importance of
self-defense when I was
just a boy.
Other guys on the school yard used to tease
me for being timid.
They’d call me sissy and wuss and wimp. To most of my friends, those were
fighting words, but as the son of a preacher, one with thin arms and no
strength behind them, I’d learned to forgive insults not seven times but
seventy times seven. My parents had named me after King David in hopes I would
grow to be a leader of men, like my father, who ministered to a small
progressive congregation, but when someone challenged me I’d shrug and walk
away.
That philosophy only worked for so long in
the neighborhoods of
Chicago. Even though we lived on the peaceful North Side, far from the gang
violence and mayhem you read about in the newspapers today, eventually everyone
gets tested. During recess when all us guys were playing smear the queer with
the football—a playground version of rugby that gave us an excuse to tackle one
another—I tried to disappear. I didn’t like any sports involving a ball since
my poor vision made it tough to time its flight. On that day, I ran at the
perimeter of the action to stay out of the scrum, which worked well—until I lay
sprawled on the ground with a stinging pain in one cheek. A hard layer of
trampled snow covered the blacktop, but the cold did little to relieve the
pain. I looked up to see Erin, the school bully, climbing off me.
Gabe had developed faster than the other
seventh graders, with
muscular arms and a thin stubble. Even his voice had dropped to the timber of a
man’s. To accentuate his natural advantages, his mom had sent him to karate
school, a skill he practiced on us all. I’d seen him kick and punch guys for
nothing but amusement, and now it was my turn. For him, the game served as an
excuse to tackle me—even though I hadn’t touched the ball all morning—a
challenge to play by his rules.
While I searched for my glasses, which had
flown off somewhere, I
debated what to do—whether to provoke a beating in the name of pride, or to hew
to my father’s advice. As I crawled toward a glint of light off my gold frames,
all around I heard taunts and jibes, directed at both me and Erin, urging us
toward combat.
“Gotta keep your head in the game,”
Gabe said and reached out a
hand to help me up.
I ignored the gesture and found my glasses,
which had one bent arm
but both lenses still in tact.
“He’s gotta fight now,”
I heard Josh, Erin’s best friend, say.
Before I’d made the choice, Mr. Crowder,
the recess monitor,
shouldered his way to the center of the group and ordered everyone back to
class. He didn’t bother to ask what had started this scuffle, likely knowing
the answer by who was involved, nor to check my injuries.
“You’re fine,” he said.
As I stumbled back to the safety zone of
the school, Mr. Crowder
put a firm arm under mine, feigning support, but really I think to keep me away
from Erin, who kept looking back at me, expectantly.
“What a baby,” I heard him say.
“Crying over a tackle.”
I felt my cheeks grow wet and realized my
eyes were watering, not
from fear or pain but from being so close to the cold ground. Neither this
excuse nor my father’s lessons spared me any shame at my cowardice.
#
Being a PK (preacher’s kid) comes with
its own special burdens. My
parents expected me to attend church every Sunday and absorb my father’s
sermons. They also expected me to defy the ethics of my peers by practicing
non-violence even if it hurt.
So when Josh stopped me in the halls later
that day and said, “Gabe
wants to meet after school at the park,” I nodded, non-committal.
I hadn’t fought since elementary, when
conflicts consisted of a lot
of shoving and name calling but few punches. Back then none of us had the
strength to inflict much harm, so the risks were low. Lately, though, I’d seen
black eyes, bloody lips, torn clothes, even a broken arm once when Marlin fell
awkwardly on blacktop. I feared all of those—but more how I’d react. Would my
watery eyes betray me again?
By the time the dismissal bell rang, I felt
as if I’d stepped into
a boxing ring and that clanging signaled the start of the first round. I thought
about running home, where I’d be safe for the afternoon, but instead trudged
toward the park.
“What are you gonna do?” asked
Steve, my closest friend. His voice
tinged with anticipation, as though even he wanted to see how I’d respond in a
real fight. He was small and had also been victimized by Erin, but as a little
brother he’d learned to fight back.
I shook my head and walked on silently. In
the distance one bird
squawked to another, a dog barked aggressively, someone honked a horn, and
someone else shouted, proof that conflict was inevitable in all species.
By the time I reached the park, boys from
our class crowded the
playground. They hung from the monkey bars and dangled from the chain swings.
One had even climbed atop the jungle gym, acting as lookout. I heard him shout
“here he comes” to the others, who all rose in expectation.
Gabe lay back on the slide as calm as if
we were meeting to play. A
half smile creased his face as he stood and walked to within arm’s reach of me.
“You scared?” he said. I shook my head and willed myself to stare him down. Up
close, I realized I was a few fingers taller, with longer arms, but that did
nothing for my confidence.
The other guys surrounded us, expecting a
show. Several of them
came from families who attended my father’s church and who saw me sitting
passively in the front pews every Sunday. To them it would be no surprise if I
ran, but I’d have to push my way through the circle to escape, confirming my
cowardice. Even though the pain from the morning tackle had faded, a twitch
started in my left eye, one so slight that nobody else could see, but enough to
distract me.
“Sorry about bending your glasses,”
Gabe said. His smile changed
from mocking to genuine. “It was just a game.”
Confusion and relief suffused through me
like the blood rushing to
my limbs. All around, I heard murmurs of disappointment and disbelief. One boy
even uttered “they’re not gonna fight” with contempt. I ignored the jibes and
reached out to shake Erin’s hand, but before we touched, time fractured.
My next memory is of a stinging pain coming
from the side of my
head, and my ear ringing as though I stood next to a loud bell. I felt the
cold, damp bark of the playground digging into my cheek and palms. Since I
couldn’t see or hear anything clearly, I lay for what felt like minutes trying
to regain control of my senses. By then, Gabe had left and the pack had
dispersed.
“What happened?” I said.
“He sucker punched you,” Steve
said. His tone betrayed no
judgement. His older brothers had taught him to accept the injustice of
beatings without cause, but I had no siblings to train me.
#
That night, when my father saw the bruise
on my cheek and the
abrasion beside my ear, he didn’t question me. Even a man devoted to peace
understood the signs of violence. Instead, he probed the wounds with a finger
until I pulled away in pain. My head still ached, and having someone prod it
emphasized my shame at both fighting and losing.
My father had taught me how to ride a bike
with no hands and recite
a poem without looking and bone a fish with a pocket knife, but never how to
keep my dignity in a hostile world.
Instead, he informed me we’d be waking
early the following morning.
#
Principal Skinner sat silent and upright
as my father explained his
concerns. Once we’d shown off my swollen cheek and scabbed ear lobe, the
principal nodded solemnly and clasped his hands atop his desk as though
readying to join us in prayer. “Boys are rambunctious,” he said.
My father straightened the white collar of
his clergy shirt. He
typically saved the outfit for Sunday services but wore it that morning to
claim the moral high ground, I assume. He appeared almost as uncomfortable as I
felt but asked the principal to clarify his thoughts.
“Reverend, these kind of skirmishes
are common in every school.
They’re how boys test themselves, prove their manliness. We can’t suppress such
innate instincts. What’s more, young people have to learn to manage their
conflicts without adult intervention. It’s as important as math or history.”
“How do you teach them to settle differences
without violence?” my
father said.
“I’ll have our recess monitors
watch them, but really they need to
work it out amongst themselves.”
My father tried several other appeals to
propriety even as
Principal Skinner maintained his benign neutrality. I could tell by his rigid
posture and voice that my father was furious, but probably to model conflict
resolution for me, he left quietly, albeit without the handshake he offered to
all his congregation at the end of services. Back then, no one worried about
bullying. Instead, like Principal Skinner, most adults accepted it as a rite of
passage.
For the rest of that day, I monitored Erin.
In class, I
eavesdropped on his conversations. In the hallways, I observed his movements.
On the playground, I stood with my back against the school’s brick wall like a
convict on the prison yard and watched the other boys playing soccer with a
flattened tin can. Gabe ignored me.
His indifference gave me false hope. By the
time Steve and I were
walking home, I’d resolved to forget it all, too. Until a hand from behind
shoved me face first into a wall and held me there. The bricks felt even more
rough and chill than the playground or the bark. From this vantage, I couldn’t
see anything other than mortar, but I recognized Erin’s voice.
“Snitch,” he said.
I tried to stammer out some defense, but
the pressure against my
cheek made me unintelligible.
“You think Principal Skinner’s
going to protect you?” Gabe said.
“Where’s he now?”
Illogically, I listened for any adult who
might intervene but I
heard only Steve sigh.
Next, I felt Erin’s breath on my ear
as he whispered, “You gotta
learn to fight.” He punctuated the phrase with a punch to my kidneys so hard I
couldn’t breathe in more than gasps. I clutched my side but couldn’t reach
around far enough to protect myself. Instead, I crumpled against the wall as
Gabe threatened me with way worse if I ever told on him again.
Once I’d finally regained my wind enough
to walk on, Steve said,
“You know how there’s always fights in hockey?”
I shook my head. My father refused to let
me watch any games as
he’d heard more about its brawls than its goals.
“The guy who starts a fight usually
wins. The refs never see a high
stick or a trip until two guys square off. And all that happens is they both
get sent to the penalty box.”
“You think I can beat Erin?”
I said, unable to conceal my doubts.
“Only if you try.”
That night, in the dark and quiet of my bedroom,
I thought about
Steve’s advice. Maybe, despite what my dad taught me, fighting back was the
only answer. The Bible overflows with stories of wars and killings. Even Christ
said, “Do not think that I came to bring peace on earth. I did not come to
bring peace but a sword.” My name, David, originated with a boy who’d slain a
giant. If fighting now meant preventing more violence in the future, that
seemed my best choice.
#
A fresh snow coated the city overnight, a
few inches that glistened
in the morning sun and all but blinded me. On the walk to school, I kept
vigilant for Erin, listening for the crunch of footsteps approaching, but all I
heard were cars splashing through the slush and shovels scraping against
blacktop. Usually those sounds foreshadowed a recess filled with snowball
fights and tackle football, so I pressed my back to the bricks again and let
the other boys battle like soldiers. Gabe ignored me even as he used his
self-defense training to trip and throw anyone within his reach. I pretended
not to see him and anticipated the end of the school day.
Before last period, I snuck down a side stairwell,
collected my
things from my locker, left campus early, and lingered across the street. I hid
in the sunken stairwell of a basement apartment, then fidgeted from foot to
foot, warming up against the winter winds.
By the time the final bell rang, I practically
vibrated with
anticipation. While the other students emerged with shouts of joy, I waited for
Gabe with grim resolve. Soon he swaggered out with the confidence of a
gladiator. I climbed the steps to street level and stared at him until he
noticed me. Even from a distance, I saw him smirk as he walked closer. Still, I
kept my hands pocketed, bluffing him about my intents.
This time, rather than a frontal attack,
he tried to circle me. I
kept my back against an iron fence so he couldn’t get behind me but felt the
spikes pressing into the sore spot on my kidneys. As usual, other boys
surrounded us. Only this time I had no impulse to run.
“You ready to fight?” Gabe said,
mocking.
I nodded.
He laughed and turned to the crowd for encouragement.
“Let’s see
what he’s got.”
While he still had his eyes off me, I removed
my hands from my
pockets, hiding one behind my thigh as I fingered open the blade of a Swiss
army knife, as I’d seen greasers do in fifties TV shows. Before Gabe was ready,
I leapt forward and stuck it in his midsection.
I still remember how easily the blade entered
his belly, as gentle
as snow falling, and how soundlessly it cut into his flesh. Stunned, he grunted
and looked down to see the blood seeping from the wound, staining his shirt and
the white ground. He staggered backward with none of his former bravado. The
other boys gasped when they realized what I’d done: that I’d defeated Goliath
with the same cunning and stratagem that the original David had used.
#
Since then, I’ve had many fights. Juvenile
hall taught me the
necessity of violence. I learned not just to defend myself but to take the
advantage. Now, rather than wait for conflict, I anticipate it, enjoy it. In
bar fights and street brawls, I strike first to feel the same power and control
I did with Erin. As Steve taught me, picking a fight never ends with worse
punishment.
My father visits me whenever I’m locked
up, which is a lot lately,
but he’s given up on sermonizing about forgiveness or turning the other cheek.
He knows that no matter how much he proselytizes not everyone can adhere to his
pacifism.
Two Davids coexist inside me:
the boy who allowed himself to be
victimized seventy times seven times, and the man who refuses to be punked.
That boy David survives somewhere, a vestige of my youth, but age has so
thoroughly vanquished him I can’t find more than traces. Just like my namesake,
slaying a Goliath launched me on another path. If, as my father says, we’re all
descendants of Jesus, then we’re all descendants of David as well, who prepped
the battle field for the Messiah.
