I have been asked before when is my first memory. For some reason, my first vivid memory of even existing is a few days before the first day of school. First grade, of course. I have two other pictures in my mind . I think I was younger. The first is of my mother listening to some Beatles' song. I was looking out of a window as she was packing some clothes into a bag. Then, someone pulls up in a Volkswagen "Bug", and she is gone. I'm all alone?? I think so.... Anyway, the other picture is of looking down from an apartment window. This was really high up, and seeing my mother getting into a car at night. This time, my grandmother is with me, or I am with her.
I remember my first year of school vividly. The books of Dick, Jane, and Spot. Our little "readers" they were called. I remember being mad at the kids who stumbled through it when we had to read aloud. These were simple words, what the fuck is wrong with these kids? I also remember the kid that cried all year long. Everyday, all day. If it had been a girl, I might have been more forgiving. About halfway through the school-year, I got sick of it. I got out of my seat, went to the back corner where he was put by the teacher, and beat the shit out of him. It felt good.
My mother was called to the school. Seems "little Johnny" is just too mean to be in class with other kids. I pleaded my case as best as a six year old could. They just didn't see that a boy crying was sooo wrong, in my eyes. I recall missing a few days of school, then going back, only to get the "crybaby" seat in the back of the room. Suited me just fine. At least the little bastard was quiet for the rest of the time I was there.
I have never liked people, even back then. I was always quicker to fight than to talk. We moved shortly after that incident, to a small rural town. I had to ride the bus to school there. I loved it! A big ole' bus! But, there was this kid that I didn't like on the bus. He was seven (7), and I was still six. He just looked at me funny too many times.
This boy only lived two houses down from us. I had thought about knocking on his door, and asking his mom could I kick his ass just once. But, that is just the thing that got me into trouble before. There had to be another way...I would find it.
The very next day on the way home, on the bus, I waited 'till we stopped at his house. When he started down the aisle to the front door, I tripped him. He was pissed, so I blew him a kiss just to be sure! When he got off that bus, his books hit the ground, and he was running for my house. He didn't have long to wait. I jumped from the bus right on top of him. We fought for what seemed an eternity. Neither of us certain of victory. But then, neither of us had lost, either.
This went on, day after day. We would depart the bus at our respective homes, and meet somewhere in the middle, fighting, clawing, punching, biting. Whatever it took to make the other give up. I remember the boy's last name, but not his first. I don't think I ever really cared. I just wanted to hurt him, and he wanted to hurt me. Why? I don't think we will ever know for sure.
One thing I DO know for sure; when I say there are others out there like me, I speak from experience.
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