Snow Pictures

by Kevin Deeny

  As with most groups of school kids, particularly of boys, a few gain distinction as tough guys. This distinction goes beyond the physical toughness required to play football or other sports. It’s a meanness, an attempt to dominate and it is an attribute often projected by a bully, and every class seems to have at least one. Brian Taylor was the bully in this class; he was fit without the massive bulk that some think of when the term bully is used. He was on the football team, loud, cocky and pushy among the classmates, but furtive and a suck-up in the presence of priests and nuns at school. Marcus noted right away that this was one to be careful around.

  During their regular visit to the primary school bathroom, a few classmates that Marcus was yet to know by name were clustered around Brian just inside the doorway which required the rest of the boys to run the gauntlet to get to the facilities. Brian jostled Marcus as he made his way to the next available urinal. Marcus didn’t give way and coldly stared at Brian before moving on to take a leak.

  Brian started up a conversation with his buddies, and Marcus heard him laugh and say, “He doesn’t look so tough to me.”

  One of his buddies added, “You better be careful Brian, his brother will kick your ass for sure.”

  “I don’t give a shit about his brother, I never heard of him. This guy looks like a piss-ant to me.”

  When he turned back from the urinal, Brian was still there along with several others who seemed interested in the potential confrontation. They blocked his way out. As Marcus moved toward the door, Brian pushed, and Marcus pushed back. Each threw a couple of punches, but before they could get together in earnest, they heard reports that Sister was crossing the parking lot and they agreed to settle it after school.

  The problem with making an appointment to fight is that you have all day to think about it. Brian had intruded into the distance that Marcus carefully maintained and it bothered him. Marcus had been in many fights in his previous school; some he won, others he lost. In the end, they all seemed pointless. “I’m tired of this stuff,” he said to himself. “I thought this place would be different.”

  As an outsider, he knew he would be alone in this fight and wondered if the other kids would be content to let Marcus and Brian deal with it between them. At the end of the school day, Marcus and Brian, followed by a dozen kids, crossed the highway to the adjacent neighborhood and walked down to the corner to put some distance between them and the school.

  Brian had his tough guy reputation on the line, but Marcus didn’t really care, he just couldn’t stand guys like this. When Brian said, “Ok asshole, I’m going to kick your ass,” Marcus just smiled and stood his ground. They started by boxing and Marcus held his own – almost thankful for the many thrashings he took from his brother Mike.

  Mike was a good boxer and idolized Cassius Clay who was later to become known as Muhammad Ali. He was fast on his feet and quick with his hands. Marcus had nowhere near the skill as his older brother, but he had learned enough to stand and hold his own. At some point, they ended up on the ground when Brian tackled Marcus and drove him into the muddy turf. Marcus was surprised by Brian’s strength and realized that there wasn’t any hope in trying to overpower him. Clearly, Brian was much stronger than he. His only advantage was that he was wiry and had competed for over a year on the wrestling team in his former school. Marcus found leverage, was able to roll and drive Brian down into the wet ground and get free.

  They both gained their feet again and alternately boxed and wrestled until they were both exhausted and neither had the energy or the will to continue. They eventually parted with a vow to really settle this. But they never did. Fighting to a draw proved to be enough. With a weekend ahead to cool their tempers and heal the soreness that was sure to come, they both made their way toward home.

  As he walked, Marcus thought to himself, “Mike is going to kick my butt if he finds out that I didn’t win the fight.” He resolved to keep his mouth shut when he got home. As he walked, he worked on making up a good story in case his brother was home when he got there. “Maybe my lip won’t be so swollen by the time I get there,” he hoped.

  Marcus crossed the highway. A car slowed and came to a stop as he walked along the shoulder, and he recognized his former wrestling coach, Mr. Denton, as he leaned over, rolled down the car window, and looked over Marcus, mud-covered and grass stained. “How are you doing Kenrick,” he said.

  “I’m OK Mr. Denton. The other guy looks worse than me” he lied.

  Mr. Denton chuckled and said “Ok, but you take care of yourself son,” and he put his car in gear and pulled back onto the road. Marcus smiled as he watched his car recede in the distance and continued his walk home.

  Accounts of the encounter reached Sister Mary Louise by Monday morning. She approached Marcus as he sat on the church steps during recess watching the little kids play kickball, and she sat down next to him. She didn’t beat around the bush: “I hear that you and Brian Taylor got into a fight last Friday.”

  Marcus turned to look at her and rolled her statement over in his mind; he didn’t think it required a response because she hadn’t actually asked him a question. This was the same game he played with his father with whom he would keep his mouth shut until a question was asked. But Sister wasn’t badgering him and seemed concerned rather than authoritarian; she clearly expected him to say something. He thought about making up another story but decided it would make him too much like the guy he just fought.

  He shrugged his shoulders instead and said, “Yes Sister, I fought with Taylor after school on Friday. He tried to push me around like he pushes everybody else, but I had to push back.”

  “Marcus, I don’t know what you did at your previous school, but you’re not allowed to fight at this school.”

  He replied, “We didn’t fight at school Sister; it was after school and across the street in the neighborhood.”

  “Regardless young man, there is to be no more fighting. Do you understand me?”

  “Yes, Sister. That’s fine with me as long as Taylor keeps his hands to himself. I don’t let anybody beat up on me without a fight.”

  Sister had more on her mind than the fight and wanted to know if he smoked, how many cars he had stolen and things about his brother that led him to believe that the rumor mill had been pretty active. He smiled as he thought to himself, “Jesus, she must think I’m some kind of hoodlum.” To her questions he answered, “Yes I smoke.” and “No I haven’t stolen any cars.” To his surprise, she offered him the time and opportunity to talk with her whenever he felt the need. He realized then his only friend in the class turned out to be a nun.

  The end-of-the-week-tests resumed, and as before, Marcus noted the resourcefulness of some of his classmates in camouflaging their notes although there were significantly fewer than before. It always seemed there were a few who never read the signs or got the message. If nothing else, Sister Mary Louise was vigilant, and she noted every furtive glance and unusual movement as she prowled around the classroom. Suddenly, there was a yelp as Matt Dixon was pulled from his desk by the back of his jacket. Sister bent down to pick up a paper filled with scrawled notes that had fluttered to the floor. Matt’s denials and protestations had hardly begun when a backhand across his face silenced him. To everyone’s surprise, he retreated beneath his desk and pleaded not to be hit again. While everyone’s attention was focused on Matt, Marcus watched as Brian Taylor carefully folded and slipped his page full of notes into his pocket. Brian scanned the room and paused when his gaze reached Marcus. Marcus held his gaze and smiled before Brian looked away. Marcus knew he would have no more trouble from Brian Taylor; he saw him as he was.

  His tenure in the class was short since most of his school year had been spent in public school before he transferred to St. Andrews. Marcus remained an outsider and didn’t develop strong friendships there. He was okay with that and comfortable with his status. He used his isolation to
think a lot about family, school, and where his place was. He asked God a lot of questions and became annoyed by the silent reply. Yet he knew what he experienced that day in the river was real and he had no fear of the future, - only confusion.

  The end of the school year finally came, and Marcus looked forward to high school. His parents insisted that he attend Catholic high school and Marcus didn’t object. It was one place that he didn’t have to follow in his brother’s footsteps; he was free to make his own way.

  Chapter 7

  Learning to Breathe

  Natural forces within us are the true healer of disease. - Hippocrates

  Marcus was never quite sure when it first became apparent, but the occasional shortness of breath and bouts of hay fever seemed to have developed overnight into asthma. He knew he was somewhat allergic to the family dog and couldn’t pet the cat without breaking out into hives, but he used to be able to run around outside all day without trouble. Marcus began to notice when he got tackled playing football that tightness in his chest would blossom and wouldn’t go away. All of his energy would drain away as he struggled to breathe and it took hours to recover from a simple pick-up game. He was thankful that baseball didn’t require much rolling around in the grass because baseball was his favorite sport.

  The build-up of his asthma scared him. Occasionally for no reason he could determine, an asthma attack was triggered, and he had to stop what he was doing and fight for breath. It was particularly bad at night and seemed to get worse when he lay down. When it became almost unbearable, he was convinced that he was suffocating. As his heart raced faster than he thought possible and his pulse throbbed in his temples, he would approach panic at the uncertainty of the next breath. A trip to the doctor confirmed asthma and provided a prescription for a medicated inhaler that he carried in his pocket when he could find it.

  Although the inhaler gave him some short-term relief, its use left him with a dry burning sensation in his lungs along with a pounding headache. He wasn’t sure which was worse, asthma or the asthma medicine. He hated to use the inhaler and resorted to its use only when he was in real trouble and even then, there were many nights when it gave him no more than a few minutes of relief until that familiar constriction squeezed off his air supply. He struggled with the notion that this was something he had to accept which only added another “Why?” to the long list he already had.

  Deep into the night he would lay in bed after an asthma attack and talk to God; it was a one-sided conversation. “God, why do people suffer? If we are supposed to be your children, what’s the point of this?” As he eventually tired, his thoughts drifted back to the river, “God, I’m not afraid to die, but I just don’t understand.”

  During one of the nightly bouts, as he struggled for breath and felt the now familiar rise of panic, he decided to just stop fighting and let go just as he had in the Delaware River. It was hard. His body’s reflex was to fight for each breath, but instead of focusing on this constant battle, he closed his eyes and concentrated on feeling his heartbeat in his fingertips. He didn’t know why he chose that approach, in retrospect, it came from something he read about in Native American writings. He merely wanted to turn his attention away from this battle for breath, because it seemed to him that the more he focused on breathing, the worse it got as fear took over.

  So, he chose instead to turn away knowing that if he failed, his fate would be one he had already accepted before and did not fear. As he turned his attention to his heartbeat, he felt the frantic cadence, and he rode the current of it as calm began to gather. In time, his heartbeat slowed, breathing became more regular, and the usual run of the asthma attack was foreshortened. Sleep came at an earlier hour.

  For many nights that followed, Marcus followed a similar course and concentrated on staying attuned to his heartbeat and disallowed the rise of panic when asthma flared. He developed a discipline that would serve him throughout his life, well beyond the experience of asthma attacks. He found it interesting though that he could control his body by focusing his intention and was curious about how this could be.

  Chapter 8

  Anger; Rise and Fall

  Holding on to anger is like grasping a hot coal with the intent of throwing it at someone else; you are the one who gets burned. – Buddha

  As the Vietnam war began to cycle up, so too did the use of drugs amongst the young. A pattern of drug use began to develop among Marcus’s friends in the neighborhood that started with inhaling the vapor from model glue and progressed beyond at a rapid pace. Beer parties became more accessible to Marcus and his friends particularly when it was cause to celebrate the sendoff or return of one of the older kids from the neighborhood. Marcus found that he couldn’t take part in the drinking and drug use, not out of a sense of a strong moral position, but mostly out of fear or perhaps sadness. He was afraid of becoming like his father. As a middle kid, you become almost invisible at times to your parents. Although it means that you may not get positive parental attention at all times, it also means that you may not get the negative attention too. For Marcus, it provided some distance from where he could observe and what he saw most in his parents was sadness. His father’s alcoholism was the core of the family’s life and colored all aspects of it. His mother was powerless in the face of the addiction, but none-the-less chose to fight. They argued constantly, and the arguments sometimes turned physical. Marcus swore that he wouldn’t be like his father and stayed away from the growing alcohol and drug use that was growing stronger in the neighborhood.

  He was uncomfortable around friends who were focused on drug or alcohol use and eventually drifted away and lost touch with many he grew up with. He was increasingly alone but by choice. He began to tinker with cars more seriously and had two the summer before he entered high school; a 55 Plymouth convertible and a 56 Ford. He never got the Plymouth to run well, but the Ford literally screamed on the road with its 312 cubic inch “Interceptor” engine. He spent much of his free time working on the cars, cleaning them and tinkering in an attempt to understand their workings. There were many trips to the library to scour the pages from repair manuals. What would become a life-long fascination with cars began with him grudgingly helping his dad keep the family car running but eventually became deeply rooted this summer.

  Late that same summer, Marcus got into another fight, just one of the many that seemed to condense out of nowhere. He didn’t even know the guy who was a few years older, loud, heavy and was pushing Marcus’ friends around where they hung out on the corner. When the guy got around to harassing Marcus, he met resistance right away, and they went at it right there and then. Marcus’s anger rose, and he fought tenaciously, unconcerned about the guy’s size or age. Marcus realized in the midst of the fight that he could take the guy. He turned out to be a blowhard who was more mouth than skill.

  Along with that realization though, he felt a deep sadness overtake him. He could see the rest of his life in an angry storm where he would encounter guys like this time and again. And he would respond in the same way; with cold anger in which all else faded to black except the object of his ire. For a time, there would be no other issues, no right or wrong, no good or bad, just clear, cold anger focused on one person or many. He would be like his father after all, and he was sick at the thought of it because he had vowed not to travel down his father’s road.

  All of these thoughts occurred in an instant while they wrestled for a position with advantage. And Marcus then did what others thought was a stupid thing. He put his hands down and took a beating. He was surprisingly calm, and he knew then at that moment, he would never be the same again, and the cold, black anger would be gone forever. His resolve would waiver at times. When his brother heard about the beating he took, he looked up the guy and said how embarrassed he was to have to smack him around. Marcus no longer cared. He had become stronger in a more critical way; he gained control.

  There were several kids
like Marcus in the neighborhood with older brothers who were joining the military or moving on to work and to build their own lives. The friendships established by the older brothers helped to spawn friendships between the younger brothers too. As the older brothers began to move on, the connections between the younger brothers helped to fill the void.

  The news of Mike’s decision to join the Army was taken surprisingly well. Mike was tough, street-smart, and could handle himself well in conflict. The prospect of him going to Vietnam seemed less foreboding because of his toughness. Many of his older friends were already beginning to sign up and head off to boot camp, and Mike joined the flow and headed for boot camp in Fort Bragg North Carolina.

  With Mike away, letters became the lifeline that kept him connected to the family. Details were limited, but his letters generally focused on the new routine of boot camp; the early rising and physically demanding training. His letters came regularly, but it was difficult to gage from them how he was really getting along in the early days. As boot camp progressed, the tone of his letters began to change and became more forward-looking. He seemed proud to have accomplished Marksman rating during his weapons qualifications and made mention of the possibility for advanced infantry training and even Special Forces. As boot camp neared completion, he received orders of his assignment to Fort Dix New Jersey for advanced infantry training, which would bring him closer to home.

  The prospect of high school began to have less importance for Marcus. Although he loved science and was curious about the workings of all things around him, with Mike away, family and social issues became a more significant part of his life. Mike had a strong presence in the family and was a leader among his peers. When he went away, the loss to the family was palpable, and everyone experienced a sense of loss. Naturally, there was a preoccupation with his return. Their father, whose presence was limited by the three jobs he now worked, made efforts to curb the pull of alcoholism and spent what time he had on holding the family together. In Mike’s absence, Marcus was looked at by some as a younger version of Mike yet lacking the force of personality that made Mike a leader; he was after all the kid brother. Despite this, Marcus tried to fill the vacuum at least temporarily.