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.
