Who's to Blame pt.2 of 3
From: The Albertson College of Idaho Coyote, May 25th, 1994, p. 14.
Revised and reprinted.
It took a long time to overcome that one day. The hardest part was probably convincing everyone that I wasn’t contagious. I did everything I could think of to end the stigma. I joined clubs, went to activities, and made friends with anyone who would let me. I even tried out for the wrestling team. I never got to wrestle, but I went to every practice, everyday. And not one of those days went by that every member of the team didn’t say something cruel, or so it seemed. I don’t know why I didn’t quit. Probably because my Dad told me I wouldn’t last a week. I can’t think of any other reason why anyone would submit to the kind of harassment that went on at every practice, especially when they knew they would never wrestle in an actual match.
When wrestling was over I began to realize that only the wrestlers still made fun of me. And that wasn’t so bad. They still called me a variety of pet names, mutilations of my name mostly, but no one else dared. I realized that the wrestlers were actually standing up for me. I guess that’s one of the fringe benefits of being in the great fraternity of wrestlers. In return, they were allowed to do the very thing they protected me against. It was an ironic relationship indeed.
For me junior high was filled with memories that no one should have to remember. But the only event which might compare to that first day of Mr. King’s class, would have to be the last day of P.E. of that same year. All we had to do was run a mile and a half. It sounds easy enough, but after a year of running laps I think everyone knew who would be first, and who wouldn’t. When I started on that last lap, I knew two things. I knew that the average person could walk faster than I was moving. And I knew that there was somebody behind me. It was of course the stereotypical fat guy that every P.E. class has to have.
I had it in my head that breaking my own record wasn’t enough. I had to beat him too. And I could tell he was thinking the same. The entire class was already done with their run, and they were all sitting on the bleachers which spanned that last hundred meters of the track. The fat guy was about five or ten feet behind me when we reached that last stretch. He was close enough I could hear him wheeze with every breath. As we began passing the bleachers, the entire class began to cheer. “Come on, Travis!”
“Come on, you got him.”
“Warpud, You get your ass in gear you little shit!” It actually gave me a little strength, but I still knew the fat kid was gaining on me. When he got up beside me, we both turned to look at each other. All year we had raced against each other. I’d say we were even on wins and losses, but we both knew this would be the only race we would ever remember. Then without warning, without provocation, I tripped. Just like I always did, too tired to pick up my own feet.
When I hit the ground all I could hear was the “clump...clump” of footsteps ahead of me. The class stopped cheering, and I began thinking of excuses. Somehow having an excuse made it easier to deal with, even if it was just an excuse. I could start crying, I told myself, and say I twisted my ankle. No, I did that last time.
“Hey, I’m not about to let your sorry ass quit now!” I looked at the bleachers. Everyone there was almost as afraid to talk as I was to move.
“Come on buddy let’s go!” It was one of the older wrestlers talking. Having him say that alleviated enough of my embarrassment that I did get up, and I did finish. And the class still cheered when I crossed the finish line, beating my old record. But no one cheered for the fat guy; no one clapped when he crossed the finish line. It made me wonder. Did they really want me to win, or did they just want him to lose? Or probably more realistic, was I just the basket case that the coach had told everyone to be nice to?
(Jump to part 3)
Revised and reprinted.
It took a long time to overcome that one day. The hardest part was probably convincing everyone that I wasn’t contagious. I did everything I could think of to end the stigma. I joined clubs, went to activities, and made friends with anyone who would let me. I even tried out for the wrestling team. I never got to wrestle, but I went to every practice, everyday. And not one of those days went by that every member of the team didn’t say something cruel, or so it seemed. I don’t know why I didn’t quit. Probably because my Dad told me I wouldn’t last a week. I can’t think of any other reason why anyone would submit to the kind of harassment that went on at every practice, especially when they knew they would never wrestle in an actual match.
When wrestling was over I began to realize that only the wrestlers still made fun of me. And that wasn’t so bad. They still called me a variety of pet names, mutilations of my name mostly, but no one else dared. I realized that the wrestlers were actually standing up for me. I guess that’s one of the fringe benefits of being in the great fraternity of wrestlers. In return, they were allowed to do the very thing they protected me against. It was an ironic relationship indeed.
For me junior high was filled with memories that no one should have to remember. But the only event which might compare to that first day of Mr. King’s class, would have to be the last day of P.E. of that same year. All we had to do was run a mile and a half. It sounds easy enough, but after a year of running laps I think everyone knew who would be first, and who wouldn’t. When I started on that last lap, I knew two things. I knew that the average person could walk faster than I was moving. And I knew that there was somebody behind me. It was of course the stereotypical fat guy that every P.E. class has to have.
I had it in my head that breaking my own record wasn’t enough. I had to beat him too. And I could tell he was thinking the same. The entire class was already done with their run, and they were all sitting on the bleachers which spanned that last hundred meters of the track. The fat guy was about five or ten feet behind me when we reached that last stretch. He was close enough I could hear him wheeze with every breath. As we began passing the bleachers, the entire class began to cheer. “Come on, Travis!”
“Come on, you got him.”
“Warpud, You get your ass in gear you little shit!” It actually gave me a little strength, but I still knew the fat kid was gaining on me. When he got up beside me, we both turned to look at each other. All year we had raced against each other. I’d say we were even on wins and losses, but we both knew this would be the only race we would ever remember. Then without warning, without provocation, I tripped. Just like I always did, too tired to pick up my own feet.
When I hit the ground all I could hear was the “clump...clump” of footsteps ahead of me. The class stopped cheering, and I began thinking of excuses. Somehow having an excuse made it easier to deal with, even if it was just an excuse. I could start crying, I told myself, and say I twisted my ankle. No, I did that last time.
“Hey, I’m not about to let your sorry ass quit now!” I looked at the bleachers. Everyone there was almost as afraid to talk as I was to move.
“Come on buddy let’s go!” It was one of the older wrestlers talking. Having him say that alleviated enough of my embarrassment that I did get up, and I did finish. And the class still cheered when I crossed the finish line, beating my old record. But no one cheered for the fat guy; no one clapped when he crossed the finish line. It made me wonder. Did they really want me to win, or did they just want him to lose? Or probably more realistic, was I just the basket case that the coach had told everyone to be nice to?
(Jump to part 3)
posted by Sylow_P | 8:13 AM
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