The year was 1989. I was in 6th grade, 12 years old, and sitting in Science class. The teacher had left the room and asked us to silently read our assignment while she was out.
Wait...let's rewind a few months. . .
At the beginning of sixth grade, I had this box that all 6th grade girls had in 1989: the Caboodle. There is no way to explain the Caboodle - you just have to watch Napoleon Dynamite - it's the box that Deb keeps her friendship bracelets in. I kept all of my school supplies in my Caboodle, and I also had pictures of my family taped inside of it. This kid in my class. No, not a kid. This man in my class - he was like 17 years old and still in the sixth grade - made fun of my family, especially my cousin John. He called him "Big Bird." About half way through the year, I had enough.
Back to science class. The teacher left and had us read our assignment while she was out. Michael, the man-boy bully, went up to the board and drew the "Air Jordan" symbol. He turned to the class and announced, "No body better erase that or I'll kick your butt." Everyone trembled in fear. He towered over all of us. He actually had biceps and a mustache. We pretty much feared him as much as we feared falling to our death from the eagle's nest on the playground.
I don't know what compelled me. Maybe I was just tired of being picked on (I was 4'7" by the way; tomboy to the core). Maybe I thought my life was complete and it was OK to die now. Maybe I just didn't think. I walked to the board, so confident. I picked up the eraser (you could feel the tension in the room. . . all of the oxygen left the room as the class took a collective gasp), and I erased his drawing. I turned and slowly walked back to my desk - glaring at the bully who was surely about to kill me.
As I sat back at my desk, Michael walked over to me. He pulled his arm back and made a fist. He hit me so hard. It was really the first time I'd be punched by someone so big. I didn't falter. I didn't whimper, though in my head I was screaming in pain. Instead, I got up from my desk, stood on top of my desk and punched him right square in the nose.
It was then that Mrs. Timmons walked back into the room. I received 9 "D-Halls" because of the punch. It was the best detention I ever served. The bad part was that Mrs. Timmons called my dad. I was more scared to go home and face my dad than I was facing the bully. I would have rather been beaten to a pulp by a dozen bullies than face my dad after he got that phone call. When I got home, I bravely went to face the music. My dad had only two questions, and only one response. Here's how that conversation went:
Dad: Did you start the fight?
Me: No sir.
Dad: Did you end the fight?
Me: Yes sir.
Dad: That's my girl!
