As a little kid growing up in the 50’s you got to learn a few things very quickly.  You found out that when you played a game you’d better try to win.  The kids in my Southwest Philly neighborhood respected winners and those who didn’t try were not held in high esteem by their peers. However, even if you didn’t win but you tried hard and made a valiant effort, you gained the respect of everyone. 

Another fact of life was that sooner or later there was a good chance that you were going to be challenged by a kid who was bigger and stronger. 

It’s just the way it was. 

Back then “bullies” didn’t use chat rooms, Facebook or just insults.  They actually would get physical.  So, you had a choice.  You either took the abuse or you stood up for yourself to let the bully know it’s smarter for him to move on to the next kid.  So, when I was about 7 years old, my father taught me how to defend myself.  When he grew up in the mean streets of South Philly, it was much worse and he wanted to make sure I was prepared to take on my little part of the world. 

It wasn’t too long before my ability to defend myself was tested.  In my neighborhood, you were probably either Italian or Irish.  We all usually got along very well but every once in a while someone would utter an ethnic slur and that could easily escalate into juvenile fisticuffs.  And that’s what happened to me when an older kid on my street called me the magic word that rhymes with “Pop” in a way that was not in a kidding fashion.  Taking offense, I told him to shut up and then the fun began.  He was about 3 years older than I and he had an audience of about 4 other kids.  So, when he pushed me, I valiantly tried to hold my own but his size and strength eventually got the better of me.  However, during the fracas, I decided to call upon one of my buddies who I had learned could really help in a tough situation.  While calling a brief time out, I removed my St. Christopher medal from around my neck and squeezed it into my right fist.  I doubt whether Catholic doctrine would agree with my utilization of this blessed medal but I think St. Christopher did.  I was able to land one or two good rights to the left jaw of the bigger, stronger opponent.  Bottom line…I lost the fight on points but the kid never picked on me again. 

Atta boy St. Chris!

Another time, when I was about 9 years old, a bigger kid from around the corner on 65^th street, started a fight with me when I wouldn’t give him one of my TastyKake chocolate cupcakes.  I barely knew the kid and there are some things in life worth dying for.  Although taller and heavier he wasn’t much of a fighter and he actually started crying after the brief contest.  That night during dinner, there was a knock on the door. My father worked hard and interrupting his dinner, after a long day, was not appreciated.  However, after Mom answered the door she called my father over to talk to the father of the kid who I just fought with a few hours ago.  With his boy to his side, this guy complained to my father that I beat up his son.  My father called me to the door.  After seeing that I was shorter and lighter than his kid, the man said to his son, “Is this the kid who beat you up?” When his son said yes, the old man smacked him in the face and apologized to my father for wasting his time.  That kid had a bad day.  I noticed a stifled, prideful grin on Pop’s face as we walked back to the kitchen.

I don’t want to give the impression that we were a combative family because we weren’t.  But, that’s the way it was back in those days.  My sister Kathy, who is almost 6 years older than me, would routinely tune up her little brother when I would get under her skin, which was often.  When I reached the age of 10, I was stronger than her and could easily handle any physical encounter.  My father took me to the side, shortly after my 10^th birthday and said, “You don’t hit girls”.  Talk about being hosed, I told my father “She’s kicked my butt for 10 years and now I can’t get even?”  He said, “Life can be tough, Charlie.  Get used to it.”

30 years later I was a happily married father of two.  Rosie was 8 and Michael was 5 and about to start kindergarten classes.  Towards the end of the summer and just before the start of school, we were all seated at the dinner table.  Mike asked, “Dad, what should I do if a bully picks on me at school?”  I thought about what Ward Cleaver would say and quickly ruled it out.  I said, “Mike, never start a fight but if someone hits you, punch him right in the nose and he’ll never bother you again.  You have the right to defend yourself.”  The two women in my life were horrified.  Mike said, “Ok Dad”.  I taught Mike how to defend himself and he never had to punch a kid in the nose, although once a bully did hit him and Mike’s response was a quick jab to the kid’s chest and the fight was over.  No one picked on him again.

That’s just the way it is.

Charles Sacchetti is the author of two books, It’s All Good: Times and Events I’d Never Want to Change and Knowing He’s There: True Stories of God’s Subtle Yet Unmistakable Touch. Both are available on Amazon, Barnes and Noble and other online outlets. Contact him at Worthwhilewords21@gmail.com