The Terrorized Turn The Tables

When I was in fifth grade, I lived in terror of a 6th grade boy named Joey Pritchard. I wasn’t alone — most of the other students in my class were afraid of Joey Pritchard too. Joey was 13, having been held back in 2nd grade (back in the early seventies, when it was still
considered in a kid’s best interests to do such things). He was the son of a man who’d served time for breaking and entering, and who was
as a result chronically underemployed. Joey’s father was an angry man. Joey had apparently inherited his share of that, because I rarely
ever saw Joey with any other expression than a “tough boy scowl.”

Joey’s mother was one of those women who’d made high art out of not being noticed. Self defense, I now think. In any event, whatever effect she might have had on her son’s anger and aggression was not apparent to any of us who cringed regularly under Joey’s schoolyard tyranny.

Joey always had some kind of weapon in his pocket, usually a slingshot and some round stones. Looking back on it, I must assume that the teachers and other involved adults must have confiscated that slingshot at least once, or made the attempt. But in my memories Joey
was never without a slingshot, and never without dozens of victims to put in his sights. He took great joy in playground target practice, usually picking the weakest kids he could find upon which to perfect his aim. They weren’t going to get in his face about it, because in addition to that slingshot Joey could throw some serious punches in a fight. Our principal, Mr. Green, could be seen visibly hesitating before attempting to wade in to pull Joey off his latest punching bag. I seem to remember several kids having to go home or hospital with injuries, and weeks of blessed relief afterward when Joey wasn’t in school. Joey always came back, though. He was an imminent threat from the moment he crossed the threshold of his front door.

His classmates got no relief in class with him, or so I was told. He pocketed straws stolen from the cafeteria in his desk and used them to launch spitwad attacks when the teacher’s back was turned. He stole pencils, crayons, and even chalk from the classroom’s blackboard, and scrawled graffiti on the walls of the school’s corridors and bathroom stalls. Of course, he stole money — his lunch money extortion racket is probably what provided the funds to keep him in slingshots, come to think of it.

I think we all knew someone like Joey Pritchard at some point in our lives. I now recognize Joey as an unloved child who was probably physically and verbally abused on a weekly if not daily basis. I have an adult’s larger perspective as well as the blessing of time’s distance to allow me some compassion for all the Joey Pritchards of this world.

When I was eleven, however, I just thought he was a demon. His cruelty and arrogance allowed me to depersonalize him, which in turn gave me the ability to hate him more thoroughly. My hatred was the impotent hatred of the powerless, futile and self-defeating, but I hated Joey Pritchard with all the fierceness of a little girl’s innocence.

Just as the summer break was in sight and we were all looking forward to months of swimming, fishing, bike-riding, goofing off, and all the other fun of those endless summers, something happened that I shall never forget, and which in fact prompted this article today. On a Friday, Joey Pritchard picked an overweight, asthmatic boy named Wilson Owens to break in his newest slingshot. Joey must have been
feeling particularly muscular that day, because he didn’t settle with hitting Wilson in the head and breaking his glasses. While Wilson was
reeling, Joey jumped him with fists and feet, beating Wilson so violently the rest of us drew back in horror and awe. The rest of us, that is, except for seven fed-up, frustrated, and very angry 6th grade boys.

I don’t even remember all their names, but I can recall vividly how three of them grabbed Joey’s arms and head and threw him off Wilson. Joey tried to scramble to his feet, but the other four boys were on him before he could do much more than roll over. At that point what happened isn’t very clear to me. There was a lot of adolescent male shouting which seemed to have something to do with “teach you (meaning Joey) a lesson” and “never again” and “no more bullying” and some name calling that doesn’t bear repeating here. By the time the principal, gym teacher, and janitors waded into the melee Joey Pritchard was a sniveling, cowering, bloody mess on the concrete.

Now, I’m not certain what overall effect this might have had on any future encounters with Joey Pritchard. He didn’t come back for the two weeks of school that were left. The seven boys were suspended for a few days, but returned for sixth grade graduation at year’s end. Joey would have been gone for the next year anyway, being promoted up to junior high and probably spending a lot of his time dodging the older brothers of the kids he’d picked on so relentlessly the year before. None of that is the point, anyway.

The point occurs to me now as I watch the US “coalition of the willing” fall apart in Iraq, the European Union learning to speak with one voice, how the Middle East is unifying against us in hatred, and the growing polarization between us and Russia. The United States of America, child of criminals and outcasts, tough, expertly armed, and with access to money, is looking awfully similar to Joey Pritchard in the world’s playground. It is the irony of ironies to me that the President we re-elected despite his record as a “divider” is going to be the “uniter” he always claimed to be, even if it’s only to
unite the rest of the world against us and our tyrannical military, fiscal, and political policies.

Just something to think about. Happy Holidays.