I left Frankfurt, Germany in 1959 after my junior year in high school. Leaving was traumatic in a way that only mixed feelings can be. I had a circle of friends I ran around with, more my choice than theirs. Only a few of us participated in any school activities. Most of our time was spent daring one another, trying to dress and act like James Dean, and running the streets, and of course, drinking beer. It was only 11 years after the fall of the Reich, the end of WWII, VE Day. If you could get your hand above the bar they would beer you. No age limits. There were still lots of burned out buildings in Giessen, which made the little town, Pop’s first duty station over there, adventuresome and interesting. I spent my first six months there before Pop got transferred to Frankfurt. His transfer was a relief in a way because I had arrived with a cache of never before heard Elvis records and had slowly worn out my welcome from there. Among my most embarrassing moments was when my friend Jim and his girlfriend and I were walking home from the teen club one night and noticed a local German kid following us. He was pretty big and as his pace quickened, so did ours until finally Jim stopped, turned and challenged him. The kid put up his dukes and seeing Jim advance to meet him, I took his girlfriend aside as they tangled. Jim got the best of him and the kid wandered off holding his bloody nose. Jim was a really great guy who liked laughing a lot and I never expected to see him swing into action like that. I just never thought he was that kind of guy. What a surprise.
What was also a surprise was his girlfriend turning to me later and telling me what a coward I was for letting Jim get into a fight without helping him. Fair fight and two against one aside, she did impress me with the possibility of me being a coward. At 14 and having had my share of scuffles by that time and the memory that I had once bullied a kid in the 5th Grade, shamed me with the possibility that she was correct. The affirmation that I was a coward, or that a pretty girl had called me one, at such an impressionable age, is a memory vivid to this day. Word of that got around, and the fact that I didn’t jump in and help Jim, did little to contribute to my popularity with the kids in Giessen. That experience changed my behavior for the worse. After that I was mostly ostracized, Jim, typical of him, remained my only friend, so I was glad to see the last of Giessen. Among the lessons from that experience was the fact that, rather than facing my problems, I looked forward to just leaving. The flip side is that she helped me decide, maybe subconsciously, never to be either a bully or a coward, but the problem of flight rather than fight remained and then there was Klaus.
One of the kids who lived in Giessen and attended Frankfurt High was the son of a German lady who had married a GI. His name was Klaus. He was big for his age and was one of the reasons I welcomed the sight of Giessen in the rearview mirror of our ’53 Ford Station Wagon when Pop got transferred to Frankfurt because Klaus starting bullying me. I spent a lot of time figuring out how to avoid him which was really difficult sometimes, especially on the hour long bus ride we took each weekday to Frankfurt High. It was easier to avoid Klaus since I was no longer riding the bus, but there were moments passing in the hall between classes where we sometimes met and he never passed up a chance to show his dominance. Word then got around that I was afraid of Klaus. That all changed by accident one day in a crowded hallway. I found myself walking right behind Klaus. As soon as he realized I was there he stopped short, but before he turned around I shoved him, more of a knee-jerk reaction than anything aggressive. He tripped and fell into a number of girls walking in front of him. I’ll never forget the look in his eyes as he lay there on his back, vengeful at first, surrounded by giggling girls, then softening as he looked at me standing over him, fists clenched, ready for what I thought was the inevitable. “After school!” he yelled as he got up and I faced him waiting for him to throw a punch. “You meet me after school and I’ll finish you!” By this time there was a crowd of kids giving us space eagerly anticipating a fight. He then surprised me by storming off down the hallway with the crowd of teenagers staring at me. “Fight! Fight” They yelled, and of course the word spread throughout the school. The realization that I was going to have to fight Klaus after school and the challenging stares of those present gave me no chance of backing out. Reluctantly I showed up at the designated place, surrounded by kids, determined that my back was against the wall, with no way out, and that win or lose, I was going to stand my ground and give it my best. Klaus never showed. That was the end of Klaus bullying me, and the truth finally dawning on me that there was only one way to handle a bully and the realization was that bullying was a cowardly act. That dawning reinforced itself a few months later by an incident that took place in wood shop.
Wood shop teacher thought the way to handle a class of James Dean wannabees was to never pass up the opportunity to show us how tough he was. He yelled, threatened and bullied his classes. Then one day he made the mistake of threatening Steve Parrish. Steve was a local tough guy who through his best James Dean demeanor, never had to fight. He was sort of an early day Fonzie. He ran with some of the toughest kids in the school and earned their respect by talking a good James Dean line and threatening to cut their nuts off. To my knowledge he never bullied anyone, but we gave him a wide space. He had a complete act, even to his stitched in creases and cut off belt loops of his Levis with the sash where belt loops used to be folded down and his form-fitting tee shirt with a pack of Lucky Strikes wound up in the sleeve. His tough guy talk kept him out of anyone daring to challenge him. Wood shop teech got all of our attention in shop one day by banging his fist on the desk and pointing at Steve after Steve said something he didn’t like. “I’ll see you in the yard after school Punk”. He yelled. Predictably, the word spread fast and after school the entire campus of kids stood out in the parking lot in a large ring around non other than Steve, acting cool…waiting. Teech never showed. He couldn’t. His play backfired. Him actually fighting with a student would have cost him his job. Maybe Steve knew this. It never crossed our minds. We’ll never know, but that was the end of Teech’s bullying his class; our class anyway, and cemented Steve’s reputation as King of the Hill, never to be fucked with. After we left Germany Pop got stationed at Ft. Belvoir, Virginia, and I enjoyed visiting the monuments and museums in D.C. One day walking along I met Steve. We recognized each other immediately, shook hands and discussed old times at Frankfurt High. He said he was on the way to join the Army and was going to be a paratrooper. That was just when the Vietnam conflict was heating up. I never saw or heard of Steve again, but knowing him, he is either dead, in jail or retired as a General.
A while later, still at age 17, I had an altercation with my dad, who may or may not have been bullying me. We never got along very well. Maybe it was just his way of disciplining me and thereby teaching me to discipline myself. One morning he confronted me for shooting my 22 rifle at objects in the backyard from my bedroom window. He never lost his temper until he learned I was using his ammunition. He took a swing at me and for the first time in my life I blocked it and scuffled him down the stairs. I returned to my room and listened to him and Mom yelling at each other over it. “He’s 17. You can’t expect to slap him around anymore without him responding”, she said. That was the end of my dad’s slapping me. We both grew a little that morning.
When I had children of my own I didn’t want to repeat his mistakes and discipline them through fear. I don’t think my disciplining them, which was occasionally corporal, ever caused them to fear me. Some of my friends with families disagreed. I always explained why they were being punished and never just hauled off and belted them like my father did to me. Brittany always took her punishment obediently. Cassidy was defiant from a young age. Maybe it was her reaction to not fearing me. Still, both of them grew into young ladies I am very proud of.
I don’t see myself as a coward but then again I have never been tested to the satisfaction of removing all doubt. My Navy hitch went without incident although one sailor got mad at me for some reason and tried to chase me out of the room. He didn’t but other than that there was never anything seriously confrontational. After the Navy I went to bars a lot; drank beer and shot pool. I don’t know why I couldn’t pass up a bar. I did get into a few altercations but nothing that scared me. Come to think of it I quit getting into altercations when I stopped going to bars. One incident in particular has led me to the conclusion that I’m of a gentle nature who doesn’t defend or fight for anything short of actual physical harm. I was shooting pool in a dark bar one afternoon in San Diego shortly after discharge. There were a couple of rowdy people arguing at the bar. I took little notice until I heard the woman scream and turned to see a man holding her by the hair and slapping her. What I also saw was that no one in the place was coming to her rescue. It was more of a reaction than anything else. I ran over to them and smashed him in the face with a right cross. He then let go of her and knocked me down. While I was getting up he yelled: “Don’t get up. Don’t get up.” I got up but the lady escaped and the incident was over. I had no grudge against him. I dusted myself off and returned to my pool game. A few minutes later I hung up the que and returned to the bar to finish my beer before leaving. At the bar an exceptionally good looking young brunette sat down beside me and complimented me on sticking up for the woman. We continued our conversation well into the following week at her place. I’ve arrived at the conclusion that being of a gentle nature and abhorring violence is not cowardice. Maybe the ultimate test that would satisfy my curiosity(ok, self doubt) is facing the threat of death; not an occurrence that any sane man would welcome.
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