Fighting

Violence was part of life for me. I saw it daily, and learned that the human body can take a lot of damage before it gives out on a person. I never wanted to inflict that kind of harm on my neighbors, and sometimes it gets thrown in your face. When faced with a fight or flight situation, my response has always been to stare it down. The first real fight I got into was with my best friend, Carol. If you've been reading this, then you already know that Carol hits like a freight train. This story is about how I found that out.
Carol had introduced me to the concept of skipping school. One day we were supposed to skip school together and hang out at the park. I "accidentally" missed my bus, and waited for my friend to come knocking on my door. She never knocked. Around about noon, I was thoroughly pissed; so I wrote her a note and stuck it in her door. Now here's the thing... My mom would never read a note addressed to me, and I assumed that Carol's parents wouldn't either. It never occurred to me that her parents had less than perfect trust in their youngest daughter. So her mom read the note, of course. In my house, this would result in a lecture, and perhaps some grounding. In Carol's house, this meant her dad came home from work early, and was waiting at the front door with the belt. Needless to say, Carol wanted revenge for getting her ass whipped.
I knew nothing of this when mom sent us out to buy a tub of margarine. My sister and I always shopped together, there was safety in numbers. We headed off to the store with a handful of change, and I did not notice Carol lurking on her front steps. The first I knew of any conflict was when she ran up and shoved me from behind. That was Carol to a T. She always struck from behind. She got in my face and started yelling at me because her dad had beaten her ass for skipping school. Idiot me says, "How did he find out?" I was stunned to hear that her mom had actually opened the note.
I told her that we were going to the store, and I'd talk to her after I got back. I also told her that I was sorry she'd gotten a beating. She left, and I thought the matter was over.
We had the store in our sights when Carol came back. She had half the neighborhood kids with her. Shit! Shitshitshit! We dashed into the store, bought the margarine, and then had a discussion about what to do. We couldn't run all the way home; running only makes it worse. We couldn't stay in the store until they all went away, and the pay phone was outside, so we couldn't call for help. I finally decided I'd have to fight her, and probably get the shit kicked out of me. This was gonna suck. I told my sister to take the "butter" home to mom, hoping that my mom would rescue me before I'd lost any teeth. J staunchly refused to leave my side. She said, "I'll help you get home when it's over".
J and I left the store and walked past the waiting throng like they didn't exist. Southside fighting follows a rigid pattern, and we had a chance -although slight- that we'd make it home before the pattern had played out. First is the intimidation phase. The victim walks along while the crowd tells them how bad their beating is going to be. The aggressor says nothing, they let the mob get their 2 cents in. Next the aggressor explains to the victim why they're about to get their ass kicked. This is how you justify the impending bloodshed, and make sure that your audience stays on your side. I had tattled on her, thus breaking our friendship. An ass-kicking was the only way to right the situation. Once everyone is in agreement that a fight should take place, the aggressor shoves her victim. The victim should either shove back or plead their case to try and convert some of the crowd to their side. Then came posing and knuckle cracking, and more threats. The shoving, talking, posing cycle could take 15 or 20 minutes, which was plenty of time for me to make it home; only I didn't play by the rules.
I got half a block from the store, and stopped walking. My sister was pulling on my arm, trying to get me to keep going, but I was full of righteous anger and nothing was going to budge me. I was sick of feeling afraid, sick of the intimidation talk and full of cold, red-headed rage. I said. "Carol. I didn't mean to get you in trouble, and if you feel you need to beat me up because your daddy gave you a whipping then go ahead and try."
I had thrown her off her stride. I wasn't following the pattern. I stared at her and she at me. She didn't know how to proceed. Finally I rolled my eyes and turned to walk home again. She shoved me into the wall. I pushed off the wall and stared up into her face, waiting to see if I'd have to fight yet, or listen to her crack her knuckles. She said, "I'm gonna kick your ass." and raised her fists in a classic pugilist's stance. Before I could think she had hit me. One, two! My lip was bleeding and my right cheekbone was on fire. She paused to see what I would do. She knew I'd never been in a fight before, not a real one at least. Everything around her turned red, and I could see brilliant glowing targets on her body. Places where hitting would do the most damage. A part of me was revelling in the power of my anger, the rest of me was cold and numb. I tried to punch her in the throat. I was playing for keeps. She blocked it, so I raked my fingernails down her breasts and grabbed her by her low cut shirt. I was going for a headbutt, but she was taller than me so my forehead bounced off her teeth instead. We broke apart for a second, and I saw how wide her eyes had gotten. Good! I hope I left scars! She hit me in the face again, but I didn't feel it. I know I was smiling when I kicked her knee. I remember landing a good one in her stomach, but everything gets blurry after that. The red faded after a while, and I realized she was banging my head into the wall. I thought that it should hurt, and wondered why it didn't. Then I pushed her away and started walking home again like nothing had happened.
I was done. I wasn't afraid anymore, and I didn't want to fight my best friend. I just wanted to go home.
She pushed me from behind, and screamed, "Fight me!"
I said, "No."
She pushed me again, and I just kept walking. She pushed me a third tims and I turned around and said, "You got your fight. I'm going home." I stood there waiting to see if she was going to hit me some more, and when she went into posing mode I walked away. A few seconds later she ran up and hit me from behind again, so I turned around and said, "Do I have to walk backwards to keep you from hitting me?"
I was putting action to my words, walking backwards as I spoke. The mood of the mob began to shift. Suddenly, someone in the crowd said, "You leave her alone! You guys is supposed to be friends!" Relief washed over me, and tears started to run down my face. I kept talking as I was moving. "You won't hit me to my face. You have to hit me when my back is turned. Whyn't you face me? You gotta hit me from behind. Some friend you are. I can't believe I have to walk home backwards because you're too cowardly to hit me to my face."
I don't have the slightest idea where all this came from. Clearly she was not afraid to hit me. She already had, repeatedly. Yet for some reason she couldn't hit me anymore. I wasn't trying to taunt her into another fight, but I was trying to punish her for fighting me in the first place. I don't know why, but this swayed the opinion of the kids around us and suddenly Carol was in the wrong for wanting to beat me up.
Some of the kids went home, and the rest split into 2 groups. One berating Carol for fighting, the other telling me how cool I was. To this day, I don't get it. We travelled the rest of the way home unmolested. I was told to go ahead and walk forward, because they'd be watching my back.
When we got home, mom freaked. She took me into the bathroom and washed my split lip with peroxide, then she taught me how to fight. I'll never forget my good, christian mom telling me to fight dirty if I had to fight at all.