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his worship of Bobby, and my hatred for Debbie

spawned from her failing to protect me. I stared

up at Debbie and gripped her legs tighter.

“Get up,” Bobby ordered from across the room.

He was standing next to Matthew with a

menacing look. I stayed in my spot at Debbie’s

feet, too afraid to move.

“I said get up boy and I aint bullshittin’ Get up!

We gonna make a man outta you right now.”

I pulled myself up Debbie’s shins and got to my

feet. My ripped sneakers made me unstable as I

stood. I balanced myself by leaning on her still-

shivering body.

Debbie wrapped her arms around me and held

me to her.

“Please don’t do this. I’ll make the money back

tonight. I promise,” she pleaded.

“Dis aint about no money. Dis about that bitch

gettin his ass kicked every time he leaves this

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gotdamn house. Gimme dat boy.” Debbie

relinquished her grip and put her hands on my

shoulders, gently pushing me forward.

Stumbling toward Bobby as he moved to the

center of the wide room, I recognized the rage on

his face.

“Make a fist, boy. Show me your fists. We gonna

teach you ta fight.” He put his hands up and

moved his feet into a fighting stance.

I stood before him, put my hands up and

mimicked his stance.

“Hit me, hit me now boy.”

I stood motionless with my fists balled loosely in

front of me.

“HIT ME BOY!” he screamed loosing his

patience.

I swung my arm toward him, and he slapped it

away with his strong, callused hand. I spun

around with the force of his slap. Losing my

balance in my torn shoes, I fell to the ground.

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Looking down at me, Bobby began to laugh as he

said, “Boy, you aint shit and you aint ever gonna

be shit. Now get up!”

Setting my hands on the floor behind me, I

pushed myself up. I presented myself to Bobby

with my hands to my side. His punch landed on

my forehead, knocking me immediately back to

the floor.

“I’m tellin’ you boy, you aint ever gonn’ be shit.

You aint gonn’ get outta here tonight if you don’t

fight back. Come on boy, get up.” He walked a

few steps into the kitchen, went to the refrigerator

and got a beer, as I tried to lift myself from the

ground.

“Boy, yo problem is you can’t make no fist. Let

me show you,” he approached me slowly while

taking a long pull from his beer. He put the beer

on the stove and stood in front of me. His hands

were cold and damp from the beer when he

grabbed my hands and manipulated my fingers.

He pushed my thumb into my palm and wrapped

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my fingers around it. I was confused and my

fingers were uncomfortable in the fist he had

made.

“Bobby, don’t. He’s gonna get hurt; he’s gonna

break his hand,” Debbie’s voice was back to

normal as she sat at the table smoking a cigarette.

Her words and inaction ravaged my heart. She

never moved from her chair to defend herself or

me.

“Bitch, dis boy need to know how ta fight if he

gonna live tonight. Shut up an’ let him learn or

you gonna be nex’.” She was dismissed without a

look.

“Boy, dis what you gon’ do. Get yo ass out in‘at

hallway an’ you gone use dis fist to knock on da

door. When I can hear you, I’ll let you in.” He

wrapped his hand over my tiny fist and squeezed.

My thumb was uncomfortable and I knew

something was wrong.

Debbie protested while Bobby pushed me out

into the hall. “He’s gonna break his thumb hitting

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the door the way you want him to. He’ll break his

thumb.” She was crying again, her knees up and

her arm extended with the cigarette smoldering,

sending a veil of smoke before her tear-soaked

face.

“Baby, you need to shut up. You done wasted my

money on dis bastard, you caint work tonight,

and now dis little bitch is gonna learn to be a

man. If he don’t, I’ma kill both a ya. Now shut da

hell up. Look he aint gonna break no thumb.” He

wrapped his hand into the same fist he had made

out of my hand and punched her in the side of

the head, knocking her out of the chair.

“See bitch,” he laughed as he raised his out

stretched hand in the air, “my thumb aint broke.”

Without another look Bobby stepped toward me

and guided me to the door. He pulled it open and

shoved me into the dark hall.

“Boy, you keep knockin’ like I showed you. When

I can hear you, I’ll let you in, and we’ll try again.

But I aint fightin no little bitch that can’t make no

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fist.” The door slammed in my face, and I was

standing alone in the near darkness.

I stood for a moment, my fist still formed into

Bobby’s version of a fist. I pounded on the door

with the bottom of my fist, but with the first hit

my hand stung, and pain shot through my body. I

cradled my fist in my other hand.

Through the door I heard Bobby yell, “I don’t

hear nothin boy. You better be knockin’ louder.”

Facing that door, I harnessed all the anger I felt,

and I heard Bobby’s words in my head playing

over and over, “Boy, you aint shit and you aint

ever gonna be shit.” I promised myself at that

moment that no matter what happened, if I lived

to make it away from Bobby, I
would
be

something and I would not ever be like these

people, not like Bobby
or
Debbie.

Unwrapping my fingers from Bobby’s painful

version of a fist, I formed my hands into normal

fists and pounded on the door with all of my

energy. Doors opened around me, and as I swung

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my head and arms wildly, I caught glimpses of

curious eyes peeking out of the slightest cracks

behind chained doors. The neighbors never said a

word, as I continued lashing out at the door.

Finally exhausted, I threw my body against the

door. Pressed against the door, I couldn’t hear

any sounds other than the TV from inside the

apartment.

The stale air of the hallway burned my nostrils,

but my mouth was too dry to breathe through.

My chest heaved as I regained my will. I backed

away from the door and sucked in a last deep

breath before I began pounding on the door

again. Sweat ran down my face, matting my curly

hair to my forehead and stinging the cuts on my

face. I punched the door with all of my strength,

trying to get Bobby’s attention, trying to get

Bobby’s respect. My mind trained on the door, I

did not notice the man coming up the stairs

behind me until he was almost next to me.

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A big hand reached out from the darkness and

shook my head gently. “Damn boy, you been

playin’ outside all day? You all sweatin’ and dirty

as hell.” His voice was kind and joyful; his big

grin framed his gleaming teeth in the darkness. I

didn’t respond. He took his now wet hand from

my head and wiped it on his pants, then reached

up and drummed on the door with ease, but the

noise echoed through the stairwell.

I heard his voice as the door swung open

effortlessly, “
That’s
what I’m talking about boy”

said Bobby, his face beaming down at me for an

instant. Then he noticed the man standing to my

left, and I was rendered inconsequential.

“Yo brother, ya got that play?” the smiling man

asked in a hopeful tone.

“Yeah man, come on in,” Bobby’s voice was

welcoming, and his face still smiled, but he was

no longer looking at me.

The man had come to score, and that meant

money, and that made Bobby happier than

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anything else. The door was wide open as Bobby

waved the man inside. The smell of marijuana

wafted into the hall from the smoke-filled room.

The smiling man put his large palms on my

sweaty back and pushed me in before him.

“Come on lil’ brotha,” he sang, and we entered

the apartment together.

Matthew was still on the couch watching TV, his

long blonde hair draped over the top of the

couch. Debbie was not in sight. Bobby went to

the refrigerator and got a beer and picked up a

joint that was already burning. He sat down at

the kitchen table with his friend, and for the

moment I was forgotten.

I walked the few steps back to the bathroom, and

there I saw Debbie, washing her face. We shared

a quick glance, her lips parted as if to speak, but I

walked on by. I entered the bedroom I shared

with Matthew at the end of the short hall. Pulling

off my shirt, I wiped it over my head and face.

The shirt was wet with sweat and blood and

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covered in filth when I threw it on the floor.

Looking down at my tattered new shoes, I knew

there would still be a price to pay and a promise I

would have to keep.

64

“GET-OFF-OF-ME-NOW!” Garek screamed.

“Sir, we will get up when you have calmed down.

As long as you’re yelling and fighting me, I can’t

let you up.” I spoke calmly and quietly.

“I’M TELLING MY MOTHER AND HER

BOYFRIEND IS GONNA COME UP HERE

AND KICK YOUR BUTT,” he threatened.

Having given him the instruction he needed to be

released, I remained silent as he screamed. I held

him as gently as possible while restricting his

movement. This was not the first time Garek and

I had gone through this routine, but it was the

first time he had hurt another student.

Garek was about 5’6” at 13 years old. He’d only

been in my class for a few weeks and had been

aggressive and disruptive since the first day. The

other students warned him that he was making a

mistake by acting out, but nothing seemed to

keep him calm until he had tired himself after

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lashing out at me for several hours. Garek had

never been confronted for his behavior and was

used to getting his way through threats and

intimidation. How I had not met him sooner than

I did was beyond me.

Garek had been sitting at his desk, and without

warning or provocation he started growling like

an animal and threw a book at another student.

Stunned by the impact, the assaulted student sat

drooping in his chair while Garek approached. I

moved hastily in his direction. He picked a book

from a desk and threw it at me. I slapped the

book toward the wall and moved more quickly.

When I was in range he swung a fist at my head

and started screaming obscenities. I spun him

around using his own momentum and used the

approved restraint techniques to control his

movement and keep the other students safe.

As I cradled him in front of me, I spoke gently to

assure him that he was safe but that he needed to

calm down. Refusing to calm down, he slammed

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his head back and forth, trying to hit me in the

face. I moved my head in opposing motions to

his, causing him more frustration. At the same

time, my assistant removed the other students

from the room and left Garek and me alone,

except for a counselor from a local guidance

agency who was on the phone with Garek’s

mother. The alternative behavior program

contracted with a local agency to work within the

behavior classrooms and in the community to

bring support and services to the children and

their families.

Garek’s blood-curdling screams and the

evacuation of my classroom had gotten the

immediate attention of the office staff. An

administrator opened the door slightly and stuck

her head into the room. She waved and assessed

the situation.

“Everything ok?” she asked calmly with a

confident smile.

“Yes, ma’am.”

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“Does mom know?” she queried while nodding

her head toward Garek, now lying prone on the

floor.

Over Garek’s manipulative cries of how I had

punched or intentionally hurt him, I spoke with

poise and composure, “Michelle called a minute

ago and spoke with her; we’re covered,” came my

cool reply.

The administrator, still peeking in the door,

peered over at Michelle who was standing by the

telephone on the wall. Michelle nodded, “Mom

just asked us to call her back if he was going to be

suspended, otherwise she said to do whatever we

had to. She was very agreeable.”

“Sounds good, let me know if you need

anything,” the administrator chimed as she pulled

her head back and closed the door.

Garek’s screams continued as he began to kick his

legs up, trying to kick me in the head. His too

large sandals flipped off his feet, and one made

contact with my face. The odor was crushing to

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my senses. Instantly I realized I’d smelled that

smell before.

The room was empty except for Michelle, so I

took an unprecedented chance. I eased my hands