Don't Run

Yesterday I wrote about running, today I want to talk about standing your ground: Don't do it. When I was little my mother was obsessed with making sure I didn't grow up to be a punk. I don't know what it is with single Black mothers, but they're determined to make sure their sons don't grow up to be no punks.

When I was seven we moved into a new apartment complex and my mother made me go outside to make friends. This place was maybe a step and a half up from the projects. You could tell because projects are often named something grandiose like "____ Terrace/Manor/Gardens/Farms." This place was named the George Washington Carver Apartments. Being named after GW Carver made it ghetto, but "Apartments" made it kinda nice.

Anyway, like most ghetto places, there were a million kids in the neighborhood playing outside at all hours so I had plenty to choose as "friends." I met these three kids, Nate, Ramen (yes, like the noodles) and Po-Po (real name Napoleon). They taught me to play football and we got along great for about a week. One day we were playing ball and it was time for me and my mother to leave so I had to take my ball back. My mother was in the car and heard me say, "Hey I gotta go, lemme get my ball." Nate responded, "say please." I said "please" and he gave me the ball.

When I got in the car, my mother had a fit. "You let that little boy punk you like that. You don't say please, that's your damn ball. Next time you just take your ball." She was outraged at what she witnessed and I had to hear about it all the way to the store and all the way home. So the next day, same thing, only this time my mother was in the house and I had to go in to eat.

"Lemme get my ball."
"Say please."
(Inner voice: Remember what your mother said) "Man, I'm not saying please, give me my ball."
(Fist comes flying and hits me in the right eye)

I took off running. I ran home, all the kids laughed and I went home crying. I run in the bathroom to see my face because I'd never been punched before. My omnipotent and omnipresent mother says, "Did Nate hit you?"
"No."
"Don't lie to me. Did Nate hit you?"
"Yes."
"You take your ass right back out there and beat his ass. Don't let nobody hit you and you just run away."

Now in my mind I'm thinking, "How in the hell did you know and if you saw it happen why the hell did you just spectate?" Out of my mouth I said, "Okay."

Nate was about two years older than me and for a nine year old I swear he trained with Maximus in Gladiator. I sat my ass on the steps in the hall and didn't even bother going back outside. A few days passed and by the time I ran into Nate again it was as if nothing happened, although I still felt like a punk for running. So the next time someone stepped to me, I had made up my mind that I wasn't going to be a punk...

Stay tuned for Part 2 tomorrow...