“I’m gonna beat you up on the last day of school,” he said.
I wasn’t quite sure how to respond.
How do you respond? To that?
I had been on the planet for less than a decade, and my life was in jeopardy.
Yet it had not been an overt threat.
There was no malice in his tone. It was more like a declaration, a statement of fact. A mere observation.
That made it even more eerie. And menacing, too.
Where had Daddy brought us? Were we doomed on some alternate universe where rules no longer applied?
Gone forever were our prior tranquil destinations — Washington, Germany, Georgia. It was as if our passports were revoked, and my father had moved us to this new world of his paternal family in Louisiana — a world where logic apparently did not exist.
His words vibrated in the air: “I’m gonna beat you up on the last day of school.”
I think I was too afraid to him why.
I was hoping for a punch line, but none came.
His statement left me confused. And somewhat bewildered.
Even though I loved being a tomboy, and collecting marbles, as much as I enjoyed playing jacks and making mudpies with our toy teacups and saucers, I still considered myself as a standing member of the Sugar-and-Spice-and-Everything-Nice population.
And now my fellow third grader was threatening my very existence.
As the school year sauntered on, he never uttered another word about his threat. There were occasions when I wondered — and hoped, and prayed — he had forgotten about it. During this period, I believe that he even spoke to me kindly, and treated me with courtesy. Perhaps, I had imagined his threat?
But I knew I had not.
On the last day of school, our only task was to pick up our report cards, and the year was officially over.
I am sure that Eddie Jackson* crossed my mind that day as I walked home. I had felt relief when I had not run into him that morning on the school campus. I was glad that our paths had not crossed. There was no need, after all, to remind him of his prior threat, or that I even existed.
I was less than two blocks from home, crossing the large parking lot of the neighboring Catholic school, where some of my neighborhood friends went, when I saw movement in the distance from my left eye.
Two figures were walking toward me, and it suddenly dawned upon me that they had been hiding behind the Catholic school building — waiting to ambush me.
I knew there was no need to try and outrun them. That seemed even scarier. I simply stopped walking. And waited for their arrival and the showdown.
Eddie walked up to me slowly. To his left was Tommy Reed*, whose growth spurt would forever keep him a foot taller than his classmates.
I surmised later that Tommy was The Witness. He was there to verify that the dastardly deed had been carried out as promised.
Surely not under the bright sunny sky and in a quiet neighborhood would Eddie try to harm me? But I was not so sure. Eddie was a stocky little boy. Despite his short height, he could probably beat up many boys, even those taller — let alone me.
He had a question this time, no longer a statement.
“Didn’t I tell you that I was going to beat you up on the last day of school?” he asked.
Come to think of it, it was more of a statement than a question.
I don’t think I answered.
The whole moment was surreal. I couldn’t believe this was taking place.
I wished somebody would open their door, their window — come out of their house. And rescue me.
I wanted to call out for help. But I remained silent.
He pushed my shoulder. It was more of a slight nudge.
I responded with tears. I burst out crying.
He seemed pleased. Tommy was The Witness.
And that was the end of our match.
I believe they both just walked away. Task accomplished.
And I scurried home like a frightened little squirrel.
I don’t think I told Mama about the incident — or anyone. Daddy was at Vietnam, or the Ft. Polk army base at the time.
Besides, I was too embarrassed. I was also mad at myself for not doing or saying something — anything. But I didn’t know what to do or what to say. However, I had concluded somehow, within seconds, whatever I did would not be successful. That still did not stop me from being upset with myself.
Thereafter…
In the years that followed, I do not have any recollections of Eddie Jackson. It may have been because I started attending another school. Once I told Mama that I was ahead of my classmates, she had made plans to have me transferred. Thus I went from a segregated Black school to an integrated school where we were only a handful of African American students. I was still ahead of my classmates, but in time, and as expected, I slowly assimilated into the state’s learning curve.
In sixth grade, but for only one brief week, I was back at my segregated school, but we either moved or the school zones changed, and I was back again to being a handful, and quickly learning that children in this alternate universe did not play with you because of the color of your skin — unlike how life had been growing up in the military world. I was grateful for the handful.
We did move later, and I attended other integrated schools in the parish. By the time high school came around, I found myself back with many of my friends from my once segregated school. I don’t remember Eddie Jackson during these teen years. Perhaps, he had gotten into trouble and/or become a school dropout by then.
Decades later, Eddie Jackson would become part of a small circle of men that my father, retired then from his civil service career at the local university, played cards with in the evening. My father told me how an Eddie Jackson had professed his love for me, and shared with my father that he had always been in love with his daughter since elementary school.
I was shocked — floored, to say the least. Wasn’t this the same guy, the same bully, who had threatened me as a child?
And then it dawned on me that Eddie’s childhood threat, and his current declaration of love, were equivalent to the little boy pulling the pigtails of the little girl that he really liked. In other words, Eddie Jackson really had a crush on me in third grade. I had never seen that coming.
But that did not make it any better. The pain was still there.
One day when picking up my mother’s prescriptions, I recognized Eddie Jackson waiting in line also. But — I was shocked to find him in a wheelchair. He was partially paralyzed. I was sorry to see that. I believe he told me that he had been in a serious car accident, and his motorized wheelchair was the result. I don’t recall the specific circumstances.
All I remembered, at the moment, was to make sure that I did not look upon him with pity. That was the worst thing one could do in such a situation. I had heard too many testimonies from disabled persons that they did not want to be pitied in life. I was glad — and even grateful — that I now knew better.
I no longer held any animosity toward Eddie Jackson. I now viewed the Eddie incident as a childish prank even though it had left scars. And I knew forgiveness was for your wellness, not necessarily theirs, and so I forgave as the Good Book requires us to do so.
That was not my last sighting of Eddie, however. I saw him again late one sunny afternoon. He was driving down the street in his motorized wheelchair — I kid you not. He was seated in his wheelchair in an actual street lane, full speed ahead as if he were driving a car. I smiled to myself and thought: Only in our Louisiana, only in our Louisiana, were we this bold and outlandish.
Some time later in life, Eddie Jackson showed up at my office to get assistance to pay his utility bill. I worked for a federally funded nonprofit that helped disadvantaged populations. Perhaps, I had told him about this particular program when I had first encountered him as an adult in his wheelchair.
I was not a caseworker, but I guess he had asked the receptionist to see me first. Seated across from my desk one day, he would profess in person his love for me, and share how he had always liked me. Instead of rejecting him outright, I politely reminded him that he was living with a woman because he had shared the status of his case before seeing the appropriate staff member. He said that it did not matter that he had someone in his life. He probably had said he could let her go — for me.
I presumed he had not changed. Wheelchair or not, he was still a bully.
But — time had healed wounds even though it had hardened others. But I knew I had forgiven Eddie Jackson.
We had both survived our childhood. Life moves on.
The Eddie incident also taught me to always heed the words and statements of others — no matter how outlandish that they may seem. To paraphrase Maya Angelou's quote: “When someone says they’re going to do something, believe them.”
I believe.
*Their real names have been changed.
~~~
I’m Ruth Anita Foote, an award-winning journalist, historian, author, and online entrepreneur — passionate about helping you enhance your business, career, and lifestyle. Whether you need writing, editing, research, or online business development, I’m here to support your growth. My goal is to empower you to elevate your success and make a lasting impact in your field. You can connect to all my social media platforms through Linktr.ee
