One Punch Kid

I was four years old and trapped in a land of giants.  They lumbered about jostling my small frame while speaking to each other at an elevation that made their words distant and mostly indecipherable.  I did my best to stay out of their way, but confrontation was inevitable.  All the more so because they constantly felt the need to impose their will on us smaller creatures.

Being small had its advantages in regards to staying off their radar.  I could insert myself into places that they could not access or would not think to check if they were looking for me.  It was a matter of size, but also of imagination.  I had hidey-holes and escape routes to protect both my physical and mental integrity from these sometimes unscrupulous beings.  Some of these places were only in my mind, created of a necessity when the giants raged and forgot themselves.

But the day came when there was nowhere to hide.  It was during Sunday School at the church where my father was the pastor.  My teacher was a pillar of the community and a regular leader of the congregational singing.  Her name was Opal and she was not someone to be trifled with.  She asked me to say a prayer to start the class.  I ignored her and tried to disappear into the corner of the pew where I sat but the wood was too hard and repelled my efforts, leaving me vulnerable and exposed.  

I did not want to pray in front of everyone.  I’d never done it before and had no idea what even to say, Lord have mercy.  I believe the correct word for what I was feeling would be “mortified” which is derived from the Latin word for death.  Opal did not pick up on my distress, or if she did, pressed on anyway.  Her large frame stood towering over me and her request (demand) was repeated.  When compliance was not forthcoming she crouched down on her haunches with a hand on either side of me grasping the pew so there was no chance of escape.

I was a cornered animal (literally) and instinct took over as my little fist found her nose and she rocked back on her heels and then onto her rump.  I remember her grabbing her nose and exiting the room as quickly as she could get to her feet to find my mother.

Was I a juvenile delinquent?  No, I was a four year old boy.  In retrospect it seems that it was a time when kids were expected to be unwaveringly compliant, like diminutive automatons, with no consideration for their thoughts or feelings.  There would have been no asking of the teacher what had led up to her being punched in the nose or why, only that it had happened.  There would have been no thought to try and understand the situation or its context.  The giant was the giant and the little person was the little person, and that was all there was to it.

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