24/7 Behind the Tussle for the Texas Instrument Pt. 5 - Larry's Final Thought

How do you know when talk is no longer effective and the time to roll up one’s sleeves and politely ask someone to dance is in order? I am a peace loving man and have never been one to actively seek out violence, even when threatened. Part of it is fear. Part of it is just not wanting to be bothered with the fighting process. The punching of the faces, the scraping of the knees, and the bruising of the egos. It’s just not my cup of tea. The one thing I cannot tolerate however is injustice as I see it, and especially directed at me. Not privately and definitely not in any public arena like high school (population 3,000 plus on any given day). It was just a calculator after all. Had I been sliced in the throat, would it have been worth it then? Had I stabbed him and been arrested, as I most certainly would’ve been, then what? What set of principles are truly worth risking one’s life for? I don’t have children but I can’t imagine telling my kids to fight to the death for a calculator. I also can’t tell my kids not to stand up for themselves. I guess all I will be able to do is create an environment where they don’t feel like they don’t ever have any options or that they can’t come to me with issues. But why should I even wait for my unborn children to start creating that kind of environment?

My tale is not extreme by any stretch of the imagination. It pales in comparison to many war stories from other’s who grew up in that era and who attended schools much much worse. I’m sure it pales in comparison to Palestinian, Haitian, or any other teenager’s plight growing up in first world countries with third world circumstances. I am not oblivious to the world around me but I do reside in a select part of that world for which I posses a territorial allegiance. Although I am quick to yell “Brooklyn, “Queens”, “NY”, and state my loyalties to any other slab of real estate I call home, I have yet to accept any social responsibility for that jurisdiction. Judging by the rash of recently publicized incidents in and around urban neighborhoods, I would say circumstances haven’t gotten much better than when I grew up. What is crazy to me is that random violence still takes place and that the value we place on our lives remain readily exchanged for material goods. What’s crazy to me is that some of us that have made it out, literally left and never looked back. We wanted to get as far away from that environment as possible and who can blame us? What’s crazy to me is that no one even considers that to be crazy anymore.

Sidebar; No one should have to evolve in the midst of chaos and certainly no one in their right mind would choose to remain in dire conditions after gaining the ability to select otherwise. Fearing for your safety constantly is not normal. It may be the norm, but it is not normal. Not realizing the after effects and attitudes towards yourself and community as a result of your upbringing is also not healthy however. When fear is your motivator, you learn to operate only under duress. If there is no strife, you will either manufacture it or cease to function with a heightened degree of effectiveness. For those of us that haven’t graduated to confidence as a primary catalyst for governance but have removed ourselves from harms way, there could be sense of emptiness in our accomplishments for they are no longer a matter of life or death. The thrill is gone so to speak. I wonder if we should put some of those fears to good use and concern ourselves with the well being of others? Who knows how many fights, deaths, jail sentences, and long-winded blogs could have been averted if there were more after school programs or mentorships in place? Sidebar complete.

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24/7 Behind the Tussle for the Texas Instrument Pt. 4

It was starting to look really bad for him. I am not beating him handily but I am connecting more than he is and even the haymakers he manages to block are sending him reeling into parked cars (ok, one parked car). Like I said I am heavy handed and lord knows what kind of adrenaline is flowing at this point. It is the same adrenaline that allowed me to feel no pain during the fight but wore off the following morning and begged me to ask the questions “ Why do my eyelashes hurt?” and “I don’t remember being punched in the navel. Why is it swollen?” Adrenaline is a hell of a drug!! I am being punched in the face intermittently by the way and he is actually calling out the shots after they connect (“Got ‘em”). A few more jabs to the grill and wouldn’t you know it, his sneaker comes off again. This time, I did my best Adam Vinatieri impression and launched his Jordan bouncing and skipping about 20 feet down the street (must’ve been a bitch getting those scuff marks out.) After kicking his kicks down this road , I stood there and let him retrieve his sneaker, once again, to the amazement of everyone. As he is walking down the block (on the good foot) to retrieve his battered Nike, his boys are starting to laugh at him. He was losing the fight physically but that wasn’t what was causing the most damage. The extraneous shenanigans surrounding the melee was giving his ego a public beating and the fact that I am still giving him a fair shot is not helping. He retrieved his sneaker, squared up and we went at it again.

A couple more punches exchange and a couple more connect. Then I think one really connects because this is when he stumbles and falls back into the aforementioned-parked car. I don’t know why I’m being coy about this so I will call it what it was. I believe I punched him in his f*ucking face!! As he ricochets and recovers, he pauses for a second and I think I almost see the words “to hell with this” flash across his forehead. He then reaches into his pocket and pulls out the concealed weapon of choice at that era in street crimes, your friend and mine, the box cutter, affectionately know as the “shank”. Oh shit! Wasn’t ready for that one. So I took a few quick steps back and I am scared shitless but I don’t run. Can’t do that anymore. As ignorant as it was, I would’ve rather gotten stabbed. One of my boys calls out my name as if he is Obi Won Kenobi and readily tosses a distreesed Luke Skywalker his light saber i.e. his butterfly knife. So we are even again, only this time, it’s a knife fight. Now in my mind I felt like I caught the knife in one sweeping motion and unraveled it like a professional Stabologist. Thank goodness for selective retention. As I was recently reminded, it was more of an “oh shit, what the hell do I do with this?” juggling kind of motion. How did I end up starring in the off Broadway rendition of West Side Story anyway?

All that was missing was some tight jeans, a pack of Kools rolled up in my shirt sleeve and some dancing Marias and we were good to go (Jazz hands.)

As we assumed the position for slicing and dicing each other up, a mutual acquaintance of ours who had witnessed the entire debacle transpire literally stepped in between us and refused to let us continue. He seemed be the only one in attendance who believed that multiple stab wounds to the sternum was not a reasonable means of retrieving one’s calculator. We disbursed at that point but hung around school afterward to play ball illegally on the roof. About a half hour had passed and when I returned to the entrance of the school , wouldn’t you know it, he is standing right in front as everyone exited. Most students were oblivious that we had been fighting the period prior but they were all about to find out. I literally walk about 10 feet away from him and commence talking all kinds of shit “What’s up now? Why’d you pull a shank out on me?" I am carrying on but he doesn’t budge, he doesn’t answer. What makes it worse is at that point, a girlfriend to one of his boys makes her opinion publicly known and it is as equally audible as my tirade. She turns to him and says “You ain’t gonna fight him?” He is not moving, he is not speaking. At that point, I gave up all hopes of a rematch and entered the school, passing no more the 2 feet away as he leans on the gate. He is not moving, he is not speaking.

The next day arrives and he is no where to be seen. Word has spread as word often does in high school and I am receiving all kinds of congratulatory high fives from other students who don’t like these dudes but also from his own boys of all people and I am disgusted. How are you guys a crew but you are congratulating me for beating your boy’s ass? There is something to be said for the loyalties of teenagers. Correction, there is something to be said for loyalty period. A few more days pass and he is still no where to be seen. He has apparently transferred from the school and the legend of Crazed Afrykan is born. The story has taken on a life of it’s own. Like an old CB radio with shotty transmission, only certain bullet points are audible with each transmission ….”Sneaker came off….. kicked down the street. …. pulled out a shank…got his ass beat so bad he transferred….” Score one for nerds everywhere, almost. I still failed trigonometry and chemistry and the bastard still has my calculator but at least I now had street credibility that spanned approximately one street long (my cred expired the day I graduated fyi).

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24/7 Behind the Tussle for the Texas Instrument Pt. 3

After about a month of arbitration had passed, I grew weary of all the stories as to when the prodigal calculator would make its way back home. The next time I asked where my calculator was and got the “monkey in the middle” story, I peaceably decreed (and I may be paraphrasing) “I didn’t give it to them, I gave it to you. Where’s is my calculator?” He sensed my tone grew combative and agreed to give me the 15 dollars for the calculator instead, which of course was to be paid at a later date. So the role of the calculator will now be played by the 15 dollars and here we go again. Now this guy never has the money to pay me back but all the while, I am witnessing him gambling daily in plain site. I had had enough. You are telling me you don’t have my money but you are the number one customer at the makeshift Foxwoods in the back staircase AND I hear you hollering Seelo! At that point, I basically issued a warning through one of his other boys (and this time, I’m not paraphrasing), “Tell him to give me my money or I am going to fuck him up!” Of course now that I had called him out publicly, he couldn’t very well just pay me now could he? His ego wouldn’t let him submit to justice and I was hell bent on principalities so it looks like we’ll be meeting after school.

About four to five of my boys had assembled with me and he had equal if not more numbers on his side. My crew wasn’t a crew in the sense that we ran around town in matching jackets calling ourselves the Dancing Leopards or the Flying Mangos or anything of that nature. We were actual friends (until this day) and if you saw one of us, the rest weren’t that far behind. Albeit unspoken, we shared similar experiences regarding crews and bullies so no one was going to let the other get jumped. Plus these other dudes failed to realize that there was so much disdain and animosity toward them that all I was doing was presenting the perfect opportunity for my boys to settle three years of unresolved tension. So here we all were, standing outside the Academy Diner in broad daylight where many a police officer had retrieved their morning cruller. Before we commenced to fisticuffs, I asked one last time, “You gonna pay me?” I really didn’t want to fight and I was looking for any alternate but conscionable exit strategy but of course he said no so off we go!

“Let’s get ready to rumble!!!” The very first punch we both throw and one of his sneakers comes off (right foot I believe). We used to wear our sneakers or boots unlaced with the front of the pant leg tucked into the shoe. This was done to reveal as much of the sneaker as possible and highlight your footwear’s sexiness (plus it looked cool, at least to us). Since he had on the new red white and blue Olympic edition Air Jordans, rest assured, every part of his sneaker was dangling for all the world to see. When his shoe comes off, everyone just paused. This was clearly my opportunity to finish him as I had the advantage of having both sneakers. Conventional wisdom said I should’ve at least stomped on his pinky toe or something. As stated earlier however, I was still fighting fair so I backed off and let him put his sneaker back on, much to the amazement of everyone in attendance. No one could believe what they were seeing. It was appearing that I was so skilled that I needed no advantage. It would also appear that I was an asshole for not beating him down on the spot! Be that as it may, I let him put his sneaker on and off we went again. A couple more blows are thrown and my junior varsity basketball coach happens to walk by at that moment. He immediately breaks up the foolishness but all he really did was delay the proceedings. We took the fight one block down away from the watchful eye of faculty to the Brooklyn Academy of Music and continued the show there.

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24/7 Behind the Tussle for the Texas Instrument Pt. 2

1992. 29 Fort Greene Place. Brooklyn Technical High School. Stress level is at Defcon 1. Violence seems to be the item dujour. People I know personally are being shot and killed in and around my neighborhood, my friend’s neighborhoods, school, and every other random area you can think of. We as a community had graduated from Uzi’s in junior high to shotguns in high school lunch rooms. Concealed weapons were consistently revealed to the privileged few and almost robbed (lucky me). My commute back and forth to school sucked, my clothes sucked, my grades sucked, I’d convinced myself that everybody else on earth was boning and I was somehow the lone virgin, and I was dead broke (why didn’t I drop out of school again?) Basically, I was a teenager assimilating to life quite nicely. If that wasn’t enough, this guy refuses to give me my scientific calculator back. C’mon son! I got physics and trigonometry to fail later and I can’t fail properly without the necessary tools. I have yet to commit sine and cosine computations to memory and you are hindering my regression. Are we really gonna have to fight and maybe stab each other to death over a fifteen dollar calculator? Ok then, so be it.

All throughout high school, my friends and I had been having random altercations with a particular crew of dudes. I had a slap boxing sparring match develop into an almost altercation due to my heavy handedness. I was accused of closed fisting when all I did was cock back and introduce my five fingers to his face. We were separated and words were exchanged (I’m sure I likened him to a vagina multiple times). This led to a six on one, “settle the score” retaliation attempt several periods later where I was cornered and invited to fight all of his boys. As I respectfully disinclined to acquiesce to his request, the situation rapidly escalated into a failed robbery. Someone reached in my pocket, I grabbed his hand in a” WTF! Oh hell no” manner, everyone tensed up and it was about to be 7th grade all over again. The reasons I didn’t let this fool rob me wasn’t because I had anything of value (see dead broke) and it wasn’t because I was Braveheart either because rest assured, I was scared to death. However, we were governing under jailhouse conditions and if word got out that my pockets were available for conjugal visits, or that I was “fish”, a “herb”, a “vic”, “pussy”, or any variation thereof, I may as well tuck my developing manhood in a jar for the next 2 years and try my call again in college. Luckily, one of the six and I were somewhat associates and he had a sense of how unnecessary they were behaving so he diffused the situation with some parting words of “Chill, just don’t let it happen again”. My boys were also having unrelated run-ins and Texas stand offs with these dudes so it was only a matter of time at this point. Although never brandished, concealed hardware had been previously provided in my friend’s “misunderstanding” with them (knives, guns, bullet proof vests, etc), and from both parties, but only as “precautionary measures” of course. The Michigan Militia had nothing on Brooklyn in the 80‘s and early 90’s. I was living in an S.E. Hinton novel and I was about to be Ponyboy.

I played basketball with yet another one of these dudes the previous year and since we were “cool”, or so I thought, It seemed no be a big deal to loan him my calculator for whatever class I’m sure he was failing. As time progressed however, retrieving my own property grew more and more cumbersome. First I got the “I forgot it” spiel. Then the excuses graduated to “I gave it to this guy and he gave it that guy” nonsense. The individuals he implicated were part of the “party of six” that had tried to Malcolm X me the previous year (“Get your hands outta my pocket!) They also sat higher on the hierarchal bully chain so I guess the rational was that I would lay off the inquisitions unless I wanted a piece of them. My rational was that my parents sat much higher on the ass whooping chain and making another requisition for a previously purchased line item would have been met with more strife than I was willing to incur, especially since their belief was that all I needed to survive was a dollar and a dream. So once again, I was on my own.

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24/7 - Behind the Tussle for the Texas Instrument Pt. 1

Prior to my arrival in high school, I had gotten my ass thrashed, kicked, whopped, flogged, on multiple occasions in junior high. The main reason I lost most of my bouts wasn’t because of skill (at least not in my head it wasn’t). I lost primarily because I either fought fair (who knew you should never turn your back to take off your coat), or if I fought back at all, I would be fighting that dude plus his crew for the remainder of the school year (and probably all at once), so I opted out of defending myself. Students and teachers alike understood the severity of fighting the wrong person and actually winning. It could literally mean your life. These weren’t imagined prepubescent exaggerations. This is after all 1986-1989 and there seemed to be a free giveaway on Israeli made Uzi’s with every purchase of butter crunch cookies at the local bodega. Why the f*ck did everyone have a semi automatic under their pillow at that age? Whatever the reason, I RAN CONTRA the violence and ended up rerouting my daily commute after school for years, as illustrated in the ass whooping diagram below (double click to enlarge):

There was no sanctuary aside from the other battered survivors I called friends with whom I shared war stories (and beat downs). My parents would surely aggravate my assault if they were made aware that I had been fighting in the first place. I remember a specific instance where I got jumped, fought back, got suspended for fighting, got punished for getting suspended, then got jumped again by the same kids on the last day of school to ensure there would be no further suspensions. Consequently, my folks provided little reprieve. I drew several conclusions from these experiences: 1) I hate crews of kids who bully people 2) parents just don’t understand and 3) I AM NEVER GOING TO LOSE ANOTHER FIGHT AGAIN!! Now keep in mind that I am the alleged smart kid. I am no trouble maker to say the least, which made me more of a target. Because of all this perceived intelligence, I have earned a ticket back to the Brooklyn to attend one of the premier high schools in NYC where I am sure to never encounter insecure bullies again ( I told you my intelligence was perceived).

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