Sixty Seconds and Other Violence

A Sober Soul's Experience Growing Up In Detroit Public Schools

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In most instances where I'm from, violence begets violence. But not all violence is created equally, nor is it dispensed proportionately. An ass whooping would be avenged by a hail of gunshots—gunshots: funeral processions, and the cycle repeats. But growing up in Detroit Public Schools, a lot of times, violence quelled violence. Let me take you through the maze.

My parents both had different outlooks when it came to fights. My father would say:

“Throw the first punch.”

My mom would say:

“If someone puts they hands on you, you betta hit em back.”

Two gods, two different commandments.

As a kid who kept to himself, this was a conundrum for me, one that I would wrestle with in the heat of the moment until the latter was chosen for me. A bloody, light-blue school shirt meant little to my mom as she would ask me the details; only concerned with one thing. I would scrape at the dried blood on my upper lip and proudly declare that I was a good disciple.

Unbeknownst to her, there was an entire world of violence that took place every day at school, hidden from view like gum under the desk. Violence that didn’t result in trips to the principal’s office. Violence that quelled violence.

PELHAM MIDDLE SCHOOL:

Here there were two games we played:

· Bloody knuckles

· Open chest

The objective of the game Bloody knuckles was to take turns with a classmate punching each other’s fist until someone gave up, unable to take the pain. I was a middle of the year fifth grade transfer to Pelham. Each day we wore see-through backpacks and walked through a metal detector-a constant reminder of the ever lurking presence of danger. I was a curly haired, light skin boy, with brown patches in his head, and long eye lashes. The girls in my class wanted to know if I had a girlfriend, the boys wanted to know if I could fight. I wanted to know what books were available during the scholastic fair, but que the violence.

The goal of Bloody knuckles was to prove you could do damage with your knuckles in a fight—that your punches had power, and that you could manage pain—this was common knowledge. Multiple boys would play at a time with each winner moving on to the next round. Our knuckles bruised and swelled as we carried on for several hours at a time. Even as a child I stayed on the qui vive and knew the consequences of not playing. Being perceived as soft was more detrimental than the blows that caused the nerves in my right hand to scream, making holding a pencil a chore as my hand imitated my beating heart.

We stood in one big circle as we waited in the lunch line. A boy named Quan held his right arm extended out, left hand cupped under his right for added support. I was facing him, a small smirk on my face as I prepared to deal him a heavy blow. Me and Quan’s game had gone on since the first bell rung and neither tapped out. His brown knuckles read fatigue, small blisters and rips of the flesh lived in the crevices. All eyes were on me, even his. One of us would climb the ranks of the toughness board, although the other boys assumed it would be Quan. I placed my knuckles flush with his, pulled my fist back, then repeated the motion. His eyes were resolute. I cocked my hand back and thrusted my fist into his as hard as I could. The loud SMACK echoed down the hall as other boys hollered, ‘Oohs,’ and ‘Damn’. Quan dropped his hand and shook it incessantly; the pain ran through him like a jolt, and I cemented my place in the hierarchy.

“I’m done, I’m done.” He said.

Violence begets violence, but sometimes it quells it.

Open chest was my personal favorite game. The number of players was infinite, but you had to let everyone know if you were playing. Wu Tang Clan said protect your neck, we said protect your chest. The objective of this game was to protect your chest at all times, while looking for opportunities to cave in other player’s chests. The game went on constantly, day after day, and the only way out was to announce that you were done to the bulk of players, which was tricky because boys from different classrooms and different grades all were in, so you might’ve told Rico, Johnny and Vince you were out, but Noel didn’t get wind to it. Many boys spent a good chunk of the day with their hands crossed over their chest or blurting out:

“I’m not playing,” umpteen times throughout the day.

I remember the first time I got my shit wrecked. I was sitting at a lunch table, beating on the table with my two pens. Beat battling was a unique skill of mine back then. I spent hours thudding my palms on wooden desks and metallic tables, learning beats such as ‘Grinding,’ and DJ Snowflake’s ‘Godzilla,’ and others. A crowd of classmates sat around the table and nodded their heads at my skills when a boy swung a haymaker from behind me and struck me square in my chest, nearly causing me to fall backward. The thud caused moans and groans from the onlookers, but the blow left me reeling as I fought for breath.

“Open chest,” my classmate yelled out as he hopped away—a declaration that he caught me slipping.

Ralph Emerson Middle School:

Games:

· Sixty Seconds

· Thumps

Boys played Sixty Seconds in just about every school, its legend is known throughout the land. I’ve seen boys get knocked out in bathrooms, their stilled bodies would lay near urinals as others hollered obscenities:

“Oh shit!”

“Dayum, slept his ass.”

Violence never excited me. Kendrick Lamar's lyrics on 'The Art of Peer Pressure' best explain how I felt in those moments:

"Really, I'm a peacemaker

But I'm with the homies right now."

Scheduled bathroom breaks facilitated Sixty seconds, it created the opportunity for teeth to get knocked out, black eyes and busted lips. The rules of the game were simple: two boys fought for sixty seconds, no more, no less. The only rules were, no jumping in to help your friend, and no breaking up the fight—Like a professional bout, someone would play referee and the bell would DING DING DING in your head, as another boy counted the seconds. I won Sixty Seconds sometimes, and other times, I didn’t, but engaging in the game was mandatory to avoid greater violence.

Thumps was the least violent game of them. The rules were a lot like Bloody knuckles, two players would take turns thumping each other’s fingers. You sat one hand on top of the other at a slant while the other player held their middle finger down with their thumb like they were making the illuminati, I mean long horn sign, and flicked. The initial pain was the worst part of this game, and after a few seconds it was as if you never got thumped. But prolonged games did take their toll. I would often hide my bruised fingers, and knuckles from my mom, least the questions arise.

I got very good at Thumps, as I did with Bloody knuckles and open chest; this allowed me to avoid some of the other violence that other boys didn’t. Boys who didn’t catch on that these games were mandatory. Boys who thought that silence was suffice, that ignoring the sequestering for them to join in was adequate. They would be bullied constantly, would be harassed and attacked at random because in some instances, violence quells violence.

I like to believe that my experiences somehow made me a better man. Now the father of a five-year-old son, I wonder if this is true. I sit with him and roughhouse and shadow box with him, but he laughs, his beautiful, bright smile fills me with joy, often finding myself unable to do anything but smile as well. He is completely unaware of some of the rough, truly rigid homes other boys are being brought up in, and I wonder if I’m doing him a disservice by not somehow telling him. His mother and I have him in a good school, and have every intention of ensuring that, for the rest of his academic life, he avoids schools like the ones I went to, schools where violence is the question, and the answer is yes.

Sometimes I ask myself: Am I preparing my son for the cruel reality that lives outside of prep schools and Montessories? Am I making him soft? Will he be able to hold his own around boys that come from the slums?

Maybe the fact that I have these questions is evidence that my rough upbringing still has a hold on me. The games, the fights, the violence—maybe they are the reason I desire to teach him how to fight when he doesn’t fully know how to sound out syllables, to teach him that when someone ask:

“Why you talkin to my girl?” they are not making an accusation, but a threat.

Throw the first punch or hit back when hit, I’m not sure which commandment to instill, maybe both. I want him to carry the same maxim I carry:

Don't start shit, don't take shit.

He’s still very young, maybe there’s been enough violence in schools that we adults can realize we shouldn’t play games with our children’s safety.