Uncle Roger's Notebooks of Daily Life
My life is, to me, ripe with frequent challenges, occasional successes, spontaneous laughter, adequate tears, and enough *life* to last me a lifetime. To you, however, it surely seems most pedestrian. And therefore, I recycle the name I used previously and call this my Notebooks of Daily Life. Daily, because it's everyday in nature, ordinary. These conglomeration of events that are my life are of interest to me because I live it, perhaps mildly so to those who are touched by it, and could only be of perverse, morbid curiosity to anyone else. Yet, I offer them here nonetheless. Make of them what you will, and perhaps you can learn from my mistakes.
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Thursday, September 15, 2005
Okay, so it wasn't really a gunfight, at least not like you're thinking. Nonetheless, it involved guns and fighting, and it happened back when I was in high school.
There was a boy (one of many, actually) who decided that I was a good target for torment and thrashing. He was actually the son of a woman my mother knew and lived just a few blocks away. His family was far more well off than we were; I think my mother felt inferior to his and wanted to impress her. In reality, I think his family was pretty screwed up. I, of course, didn't know it at the time.
In any case, he liked to pick on me and being in the same ROTC class gave him ample opportunity to do so. Back then, such things were thought to build character. Unfortunately, some people still do, even after the Columbine incident and its backlash.
One day, we had been on the rifle range (gee, do they still have real guns in high schools these days?) and were in the armory, cleaning our guns and putting them away. I didn't realize it, but as I headed out of the armory, he was directly behind me. He had a rifle strap, a thick, heavy, leather, belt-like strap used for carrying a rifle and for steadying the gun when shooting. If you picture an infantryman marching along with a rifle slung over his shoulder, the strap is what holds the gun in place.
He held the strap at the ends -- one end in each hand -- and came up behind me. He slipped the strap over my head and down to my neck and pulled backwards, choking me. For whatever reason, I had had enough. I turned around, the strap still around my neck, and punched him square in the face.
He let go of the strap and I ran out of the building, crying. I suspect I was probably more upset about the whole thing than he was. I fully expected that he would tell someone what I had done and I would be punished. As it was, nothing was ever said about the matter. From that point on, however, he pretty much left me alone.
(This entry is part of the September Blogging Challenge.)