I have never been a violent person, at least not instinctively. Whenever I was teased as a child—I struggled to read for much of elementary school and wore a lot of white jeans, so I was teased a lot—I’d opt for silence or a quick joke, usually at my own expense. I’d level my aggressor with my apparent disinterest or with my words, never with my fists. All of that wit and restraint dissipated, however, whenever I saw anyone making fun of my older brother Sean.
A guy doesn’t forget his first fight, but odds are he may not remember the factors that lead to the violence in vivid detail; I remember mine as if it happened an hour ago. I was eight years old and walking from the computer lab to my second grade teacher Mrs. Ouellette’s classroom at the Cashman Elementary School in Amesbury, Massachusetts. As I descended a set of stairs, I spotted my brother, who was 11 and in the fifth grade at the time, walking through the hallway in front of me. His gait—awkward and strained and favoring his left side—was unmistakable.
Outside of the sort of rivalries that are inherent to any set of siblings, my brother and I were close. When I saw him at school, I was excited to catch up to him and say hello. I was proud to show off to my friends: “I am eight and I am terrified, but I have an older brother in this building, so I am protected. Do you have an older brother in this building? No, I didn’t think so. I am invincible.”
As I approached Sean, I spotted another older kid—a classmate of his, a “cool” kid—trailing a few paces behind and mimicking my brother’s lopsided stride, beating his chest with his right arm in an exaggerated manner, his hand formed into a contorted claw. A few of the jerk’s buddies snickered—some with glee, some with expressions that denoted discomfort and the false bravado that comes from being with your pack. I knew what was happening, but I wasn’t prepared to take on six or seven confident, bigger kids by myself. That is, I wasn’t prepared to take them on until I got close enough to hear what their leader was saying.
I can’t repeat the sentences verbatim, but I do remember hearing the two words that enrage me still: “cripple” and “retard.”
[For more of this story, written by Terrence Doyle, go to http://adequateman.deadspin.co...-retarded-1782584880]
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