Deus Ex Machina - the Bully
I didn’t get it. Why was it so insulting to call someone a cat-licker, or even a pot-licker? Every day on my way to Catholic elementary school I passed the other school, Capitol Hill Elementary. There was a taunting zone to get through between neutral territory and Catholic territory. That was where these and other useful and descriptive metaphors were exchanged between the populations of the two schools.
I understood the intent alright. We little Catholics were being called cat lickers with some disparagement. So? I liked cats. Cat kisser would have been a bit more telling, but still, licker? not all that bad. So naturally if we, of the separate persuasion, licked cats then they of the not-separate category, licked something too. Pots presumably.
That first September I couldn’t quite make out the actual words in all the shouting - both groups lacking competent coral direction. The slings were misarticulated by volume. The actual words later clarified made little sense as an effective insult. Licking the bowl was a good thing. Cats? Pots? Perhaps the epithets were foreign words I didn’t know yet. I’d heard a few French cuss words that seemed to add punch to an insult. When translated to holy blue, for instance, they lost considerably in the translation, so maybe it was something like “pottlikker “ and was an old Dutch expression that meant something so horrible it couldn’t be spoken in English for shame. Likewise, “cattlikker” was equally vile.
Being one of the Cattlikkers however I naturally joined in the fray for no other reason or excuse than pure teamsmanship. Unlike my sister Pat, entering into the fray is not usually in my nature but as I say, the group dynamics demanded it. My older sister and I are as alike as chalk and cheese.
Pat was habitually helpful in pointing out my deficiencies. Her performance evaluations of me were timely, and I had no worry she would mislead my understanding by softening her comments merely because we were related by blood. She was good and clear and I apparently relied on her honesty. She took her role as mentor quite seriously, or at least frequently. I repeatedly scored low on the guts-to-brain scale, favoring common sense above a bloody nose. Strictly, just a check in the box was all that was actually necessary on these reviews but she wouldn’t stint herself and would go the extra mile by also providing instructive verbal observations as well. Scairdy-cat, little twerp, wimp... helped me realize that survival is in the details. Get out and get out fast. Sigh. Fortunately she was willing to provide me with practice.
Now, living across the street from us as the time were two girls, Carol and Doreen MacSomething. They were much better than we were. They were Scottish and we weren’t. The hierarchy had apparently been established and then cast in stone at the dawn of time. No questions asked, none answered.
There weren’t any other kids of the same age and gender in the neighbourhood for me to play with so the odd time Doreen, my age and a pottlikker, was forced to tolerate me as a play partner. Actually, Doreen was one year younger than I was. By every rule of nature I should have been able to easily assume ascendancy by age alone, but she having the aforementioned superiority of race and religion I acceded to Doreen’s pleasure in most instances. I was too lonely for companionship to let a little thing like self-respect get in the way. Doreen got her own way all the time, and I let her. Mind you, compliance was regularly one of the few good scores I got on my sister’s report cards.
Doreen had a right to treat me like dirt beneath her feet which were circulating with genuine blue blood, and so, feudally speaking, did her older sister Carol. I was afraid of Carol. She was older than I by about four years. She was taller than I by about eight feet. She hung out with Shaunie Robertson who ate small cattlikkers for breakfast. And the final caution, she was a big sister, a dangerous and unpredictable creature at the best of times. These were not the best of times.
Walking home from school one afternoon I saw the two of them. Carol and Crusher, and Shaunie the Smasher were coming toward me on the same sidewalk. I kept walking while my mind did some sort of Fellini thing and turned it all into slow-motion. This is nature’s way of giving you some time to plan your strategy and say your prayers. I used the time to mentally play out all the damages they could do to me. Soon enough they were within spitting distance of me on this path. They were having none of it, and wouldn’t let me pass.
Having seen this possibility I was, stupidly, shocked when it happened. I was given to exaggerated worrying as a child and rarely did reality catch up with paranoia. Now it looked very much like I was about to enter one of my own fantasies. Not good.
My defense strategy was to let them wear themselves out insulting me and this would give me time to figure out escape routes. I had been well sheltered. This was the 50’s. The Roy Rogers and Dale Evans Show was the most violent thing on TV.
I trembled and collegially agreed with everything they said. It was going pretty well I thought. Yes, I knew I was a little turd. Yes, I knew I was stupid and had a bad smell. There was more, but the summary was that I was a cat-licker which they dressed up descriptively. But then, they were pot-lickers and were allowed to use such language. It soon became apparent that cat-licker meant broken, and I needed fixing. A bit of scuffling followed and then Shaunie spit in my face.
The two flounced off, looking very smug with their day’s pillage and rampage, and one more little cat-licker put in her place.
My house being just up the street I didn’t have time to get myself under control by the time I got in the door of sanctuary. There were explanations to be made. I made them. Yes, there had been trouble. But... yes, I’d been involved. But... no, I didn’t provoke them. But... yes, I’m sure. No, I don’t have to go that way again. Yes, I can cross the street when I see them coming.
I wasn’t a fighter. There wasn’t a problem with credibility. “Just leave those girls alone dear and they’ll leave you alone.” I figured that meant keep your eyes peeled and be prepared to run like crazy. I could do that.
Michelle had come home crying one day - not an unusual occurrence. She was in grade two - or perhaps even grade three. Some bigger girls in grade 6 from the other school had pushed her down and threatened her in the alley. She didn’t complain to me. By that time I’m sure she had felt that the entire world was conspiring against her. Not only did her big sister push her around, but so did other kids. But she did go crying to Mom.
I forget what Mom told her to do - probably to avoid them, or come home another way and come straight home. Something, of course, that would be of no earthly use whatsoever While I wasn’t a fighter per se, (good girls didn’t get into fights), I could usually talk my way out of situations. The idea that these bigger kids were picking on my little sister did not go down well at all. My St. George and the Dragon complex kicked into gear.
It also didn’t hurt that these kids were Protestants. Not that we hated Protestants or anything like that. It wasn’t anything that grand. It was just that the two schools, the Catholic and the Protestant, were right across the street from one another. They called us cat-lickers and we called them pot-lickers. This was obviously pre-television and the universal adoption of the F-word. A word, by the way, which I never heard spoken until I was fifteen, and then by a Protestant.
So, listening to Michelle sob bitterly about her way-laying by Shaunie and her cohorts, I determined to take action.
A few days later rumours reached me that Shaunie Robertson had been beaten up. She had met her comeuppance because someone had picked on Pat’s little sister. I wondered, gee, who would be brave (read stupid) enough to go after Shaunie Robertson. In my mind a picture formed of some big hulk, and not too bright a light, with a death wish. Then I heard that the beater-up was none other than my own sister Pat. Pat? Pat! I even heard that Pat had stuffed fox-tails down Shaunie’s shirt. I was dizzy with questions. When? How? Why? I figured Pat must have had her own run-in with the social arbiter of Capitol Hill, and took even less nonsense from her than she did from me.
Not so! Saunie Robertson had met her comuppance because someone had picked on Pat’s little sister. Me? There were only the two children in the family. It had to be me. I went home but Pat and I never discussed the matter. It was generally accepted that I didn’t speak first, and Pat never said, There Michelle, I got Shaunie back for you. Or, That’ll teach that bully to mess with MY little sister.
The next day after school I rode my bike, cruising. I was looking for Shaunie and the gang. They would have been two years younger than I but there were three of them so I figured the odds were about right.
I saw them on the corner, on the sidewalk, beside the vacant lot. Today the lot is home to a car dealership, but then it was a weed filled lot with grass hillocks, weeds, bits of concrete from some previous dwelling, and bits of broken glass.
I confronted them on the sidewalk, and meaningful dialogue ensued.
“Leave my sister along or I’ll get you”.
“Yeah - you and who else?”
“Me and nobody else.” Shove.
I zeroed in on Shaunie, the biggest and obvious group leader. Even then I had an instinct for dealing with the real power in a group. Since she wasn’t amenable to sweet reason, I stuck one foot behind her leg and pushed. Down she went into the ditch in the vacant lot, and bam! Down I went on top of her. I think I bounced on her. I know I pummeled her shoulders - and maybe even smacked her one. Before long she was crying. Her two friends did nothing to help, but stood loyally off to the side, swearing they’d get me and tell somebody. Go ahead, I declared with bravado, as I swaggered off muttering about worse things yet to come if they so much as looked at Michelle the wrong way again.
I was late getting home for supper completely forgetting that this was Michelle’s birthday and we were going out for dinner. This meant a lecture since I could hardly explain my tardiness with the real reason. Stopping to punch the daylights out of some younger girls was not approved behaviour even if they had punched Michelle. But even then I knew that the meek did not inherit the earth. The meek got pushed down in alleys and stomped. My mother’s way of avoiding trouble was just not an attractive option. I was destined to be a stomper, never a stompee.
Well my mind ran amok with confusion. I wanted to believe that Pat had dealt out summary justice because deep down in her heart of hearts she really did kind of like me a little. There was also the possibility that it was just a territorial thing. If anyone’s going to put MY little sister in line it’ll be ME. Maybe I didn’t want to find out which one it was.
I didn’t trade on this new power. I didn’t begin taunting kids and tempting bullies in the confidence that I now had a personal super-hero. I wasn’t fooled into thinking there was a new world order. I was not one to look a gift horse in the mouth either, lest she chomp down too quickly and I get bitten. So I didn’t ask Pat the why of things. The best way to handle this was to take a wait-and-see stance. It might happen again, but not on purpose now that I was smarter. If it were to happen again I might be able to revise my position in the galaxy, but until then I was going to look on this as an act of generosity, from the blue, a Deus ex Machina if you will, and leave it at that. My one and only Deus ex Machina. Some people never get any.
I was never harassed again by Shaunie Robertson in specific, though I have met several of her ilk (a Scottish word if I’m not mistaken) since. Unfortunately, unless Pat is willing to hire out, I’m afraid the solutions to wider world conflicts of religious differences shall remain unsolved.
Two days later one of Shaunie’s gang told me that Shaunie had to have her appendix out because I had jumped on her stomach.
Good! I said, thus sealing my reputation in the neighbourhood as a tough cookie that you’d better not mess with.
I do not know if Shaunie did have her appendix out. I have no idea, if she did, whether my bouncing on her stomach had anything to do with it. Shaunie, if you’re out there and reading this please get in touch with me and let me know. Did my jumping on your stomach give you appendicitis? Good!
Process Engineer & Metrologist at Airbus Group
6yOn the issue of chalk and cheese, I think Worcestershire icheese is a good approximation of chalk, maybe you showed that brains need spirit and a bit of gutsy fire. There is always something about standing up to bullys, while it applies in the school yard, in the work place its a different matter where bullying and authority are closely linked which serves to disempower the recipient more so than on the school yard or street. I wonder of the greek understanding of the term meek ais the same as our own and it could infer a humble heart, or a less aggressive or angry one. Enjoyed your article