Aggressively Mediocre?

Chapter 1- Groaning and Pains

It was fifth grade when I decided that second or even third best suited me better than

numero uno. When you’re the biggest and badest you have a target on your back. When you’re

a lowly peon you get no respect. Second best had it made, because it was the best of both

worlds. So, it was second best I set out to be. I managed it pretty easily in my school, and would

protect my status whenever it was threatened. Early one afternoon in the third stall of the boy’s

bathroom (one of the only ones with a working lock on the door) I was doing exactly what you

would expect me to be doing after enchilada Tuesday in the cafeteria. It was then, that a 10

year old blonde haired terrorist began kicking open the doors to each stall. Once the door swung

open the little operative of mayhem would yell “aha I caught you shitten!” As he worked his

way down the row of stalls with the speed, surprise, and violence of action to make a SWAT

team proud, I struggled to get my pants up and buttoned. Who the hell buys 10 year olds button

flys?! GOT IT! Then WHAM! The door to my stall burst through the small chrome lock (so this

is how they all got broken), swung open, and slapped me in the head. Clearly the boy did not

expect to find number two going number two in this, his most recent act of terror. He stood

before me silent, but if his eyes could talk I am certain they would have been saying “oh no, not

him.” It was then that I dealt that little plaid shirt wearing monster the most one-sided beat down

in boy's bathroom history. It was also then that I learned that teachers don’t often dare peek into

children’s bathrooms. Two minutes doesn’t sound like a long time, but I assure you it is an

awful longtime to beat or be beaten. I was exhausted after that fight.

That afternoon I walked home with a friend, and told him all about the victory over my

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bathroom attacker. It was just as we rounded a corner, and cut across someone’s front yard that I

heard what sounded like cattle on a stampede. I started to turn around, but it was too late. I was

bowled over by what felt like pure white hot energy. I fell backwards, rolled completely over and

ended up face down in the grass. I felt no pain yet. It was all just too fast and too intense to

completely register. I believe the feeling must be very much like when someone is shot or

stabbed during a fight scene, but do not realize it till there is a lull in the action. Well, the second

or two I had on the ground was enough of a lull to realize that I was in pain, and judging by the

voices above me it wasn’t over. I didn’t dare look up. I was being mauled, and seeing the

attacker’s faces would only necessitate my murder. After what felt like an eternity the blows

falling on my head and body stopped. I started to lift my head up when I saw them… Pink tennis

shoes? She yelled out to me “the next time you touch my little brother were gonna come back

and kick your butt again!” No! It couldn’t be! To my left I see two girls holding their back packs

by the straps ready to swing. To my right there was another. In front of me stood queen bitch

with her blond haired brother I had whipped earlier in the day. Behind me was my friend I was

walking with. I asked him “why didn’t you help me?!” His reply- “they were girls dude…”

After my training bra wearing attackers ran off to commit war crimes in the third world followed

by homework and a snack I stood up, picked the grass from my hair, and bid my friend a 1

finger farewell. Finally, back to my walk home. No sooner than I started I saw a familiar figure

just up the block with her arms crossed. It was my mother, a strong woman who took pride in

making her son tough in spite of not having a father around. As I walked up to her I cheerfully

said “hey mom, what are you doing here?” Her cold reply simply: “boy, did you just get beat up

by girls?!” So much for being number two….

Our move to Hawaii was prompted by my mother’s hatred of Chicago winters, but was

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most welcomed by the boy formerly known as number two. So, in the most beautiful of places I

found myself sputtering along in a rusted out Honda Accord, manufactured simultaneous to my

own conception. For anyone else this would amount to a minor nuisance, but I was approaching

teenage years; which meant teenage standards. So as I sat, oblivious to the smell of the ocean salt

in the air, or the beauty of the emerald green mountains just across the highway, and the playful

way the waves licked at the golden beach only a few meters from my struggling chariot, I was

fastly approaching a "life or death situation." How many blocks should I have my mom drop me

off from school in order to avoid ridicule?!

Sadly it gets no better once inside this open air institution of liar learning. It was a school

like nothing I had ever seen. A tapestry of portable classrooms, hodgepodge amongst two or

three ancient buildings. All of this majesty perched atop red dirt and fire ants. Hades, I've

arrived.... In my new hell there are a million different ways to not fit in- shall I recount them all?

It stands to reason that one would wear t-shirts and shorts to school when it is 100 degrees F and

100% humidity- or so the uninformed purchasers of my school clothes thought. Imagine my

horror when I arrived at Kihei Elementary School to find its prepubescent hordes sporting

surplus Bell Biv Devoe  long sleeve rayon shirts, baggy black pants, cuffed and rolled at the

bottom! Seeing as though I was severely out-classed in the fashion department I decided to make

myself scarce. Recess was spent in the classroom. Class was spent as far out of sight as possible.

All the while I daydreamed. The newest of the series was a vivid adventure, involving me

slapping around a tough kid in my class named Kyle. Kyle's offense was to call attention to my

admittedly too short shorts, and slowly read the words inscribed across the ass cheeks of the

daisy dukes in question- “SURF RAGS?” Who would believe that the millions spent on women's

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shorts with provocative slogans across the dairryer was actually pioneered by yours truly? Even

more intimidating than Kyle were the girls. They were in my daydreams too, but in decidedly

less violent roles. You see, I was quite a dynamo in the sack, or at least I was pretty sure I would

be if given the opportunity.

It must have been around this time frame that I began to develop the propensity for

bending the truth. In my defense I must say, that at this early age real life and the dreamt up

unintentionally began to swirl into a parallel reality known as- bullshit. There were naturally

those unavoidable moments where I had to depart my vivid fantasies of pimp slapping bullies

and wooing the fair and occasionally homely maiden. It was during one of these interludes from

bullshit that I made a quite astute observation. That observation was that being smart and being

good were a recipe for scorn. Those lucky few who managed to earn their place among the

playground elite, did so by being anything but good. These boys walked a higher plane. They

didn’t follow anyone’s rules as far as I could tell, and the best part about it is that everyone loved

them for it. In what world other than the imaginary could I pull this off? The logistics alone

could prove to be impossible. How do I trade my brand new surf rags wardrobe in for some

black on black bad boy rayon? How bad do I need to be in order to get some cred? More

importantly, how do I get these people to believe that I have been reborn hard? Well, might as

well go play some basketball in the mean time. Wait a minute! This is Hawaii. The basketball

court is littered with Asian boys half my size. I think I’ve found as good a place to start as any…

While the big Polynesian kids are busy beating the lunch money out of the poor suckers on the

playground, I decided it was time to make my athletic prowess known. Sure, I wasn’t all that

great at basketball back home, but I was a black kid from Chicago. What chance could a bunch

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of little Asian boys have against me?!

So, now everyone knows I dress funny, and am some sort of spastic on the basketball

court. If I could have managed to pull my pants down in public, and do the electric slide in the

process all helpful stereotypes about black men would have instantly been dispelled as far as

they pertained to me. Stupid suburbia, made me soft. Why couldn’t my mom raise me in the

ghetto? She could have signed me up for one of those cool clubs- like the crips or the bloods.

Maybe even some welfare checks? What the hell was she thinking dragging me to the safety of

suburbia when I was young? Hell, I even grew up with a good education, and spoke intelligibly.

If this week would have had just one more day in it, I would have lathered up in honey and

guava nectar, and fed myself to one of the marauding bands of red ants. Maybe I could shank

someone…

As I sat wondering how you make a shank I met my first friend. He was naturally short,

chubby, and in glasses. That said, he was still out of my league socially. He and his people knew

better than to dress him up in “surf rags.” He was also a local. You see, if you move to the

islands from the mainland, you are considered a “howlie” until such a time that enough locals

decide you deserve to be anointed as one of their own. Tommie introduced me to his equally

nerdy friends, and I took comfort in not being the most awkward for a change, if only just in my

own eyes. Thankfully the good lord’s mercy could reach across the Pacific, and spew the

Hawaiian sands through the hour glass. Before I knew it my year in “paradise” had come to an

end.

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