While home reconfigures itself around new events punching forty years of crap in the face, an encore, originally posted February 28, 2009, about welcoming in transitions peacefully.
When I had a crush on the boy, I kicked him or at least tried to, once chasing Costas down the aisle of a rare empty auditorium at PS 110.
But when it came to punching, that was a horse of a different challenge, usually issued by Michael or Uriah or Antonio or whoever else felt it necessary to call me to a fight and I held dear to my record of never losing which was much different than always winning. I just punched back long enough for a teacher to rush out onto Cannon Street and drag me back into the school and wash off the bloody nose.
And then Junior High School 56 loomed on the horizon and we were all sat down and told of one kid being stabbed, another thrown off the roof (maybe it was the same kid) and what was a right and skill - to punch back - suddenly had much different consequences.
At 6th Grade graduation, an autograph book filled with well wishes from classmates and teachers alike, a note to myself:
"When I get into junior high school, I must act more mature, try to advoid fights and don't talk back and be quiet...""
...because "all they that take the sword shall perish with the sword," and I was told there was fun waiting for me in high school.
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