Bigotry

"Don't cut through my yard anymore mans," I heard a voice say,
and my shot went wild. I didn't notice. The basketball game had almost
disintegrated from my mind at the use of that word.
I turned to face this voice, my disbelief and outrage broadcasted by
my face. I saw my own shock mirrored in the faces of my younger brother
and his friend Cimarron.
"What?" I asked indignantly to the small white boy who stared at us
defiantly from the safety of his yard. I had fully expected his to
rescind his previous statement.
"I said...Don't walk through my yard anymore, you mans," So much
for that idea, I thought sarcastically before fully absorbing the
predicament. The confidence on the boy's face belied his size and
situation. I was tall for my age, 5'11 in the eight grade. I was also
strong despite my lanky, awkward frame. I could easily pummel this boy
by myself. Then after adding in my surprisingly quick younger brother
and his friend, the white boy seemed crazy for starting this
confrontation.
I glanced at my companions and noticed as they made their belligerent
way towards the obviously insane boy. He didn't move from where he
stood, a few feet from the edge of his yard. "You can't come in my
yard," he said tauntingly. "Or my dad will get you. He'll shoot you
mans with his shotgun,"
That stopped my brother and Cimarron at the yard's end. We were all
still of the age where respect and awe of adults still largely shaped
our world. Five years post the yard would have been nothing but a yard,
but for now, it seemed as physical a barrier as a six-foot brick
wall.
Cimarron swore at the boy. "Come out here and call us niggas, you damn
cracker!" he continued, seething with impotent anger.
"No, I don't have to. And you mans can't come in here," He grinned
evilly. "Nigger, man, man!"
My brother was combing the ground for something to throw. Cimarron
continued to argue futilely. I was the oldest and the most level-headed
of our trio, and as such I had searched my mind for a pleasant
resolution that somehow incorporated revenge. He couldn't be forgiven
or forgotten, he had used the "N" word on us not just once but multiple
times. I had already considered and discounted the idea of telling his
parents, on the slight chance that he had exaggerated his father's
character. Any child which could use the word "man" as hatefully and
as maliciously as he did now had learned his bigotry from somewhere,
most likely from his invisibly potent predecessor.
By then my brother had reclaimed the basketball and leaned back to
launch it at the boy, stretching his arm back and lifting the opposing
leg for added power. "Better not man," the boy taunted again. "My
dad might see and come shoot you mans,"
I think my brother had realized the possibility of losing the
basketball into their yard. He lowered the basketball, teeth gritted in
unreleased rage. "Step out here then. Step out here. Just an inch. Just
for a second,"
"No," the white boy said defiantly.
"Just one foot. Just one white foot," Cimarron added.
"I don't have to listen to you mans. Shut up! Shut up you stupid
mans! You all need to go back to Africa and swing from trees like
monkeys!"
I had tried to keep a level head, but each time the little boy had
used the word "man" I had felt an ineffable... something. It was
very much like the feeling I'd gotten watching Martin Luther King Jr.
documentaries and marveling sadly at the injustice of his
assassination. Or when I viewed dramatizations of American slavery and
seen the unrepentant cruelty that my ancestors had been forced to
endure. This boy knew nothing about us... about me! I hadn't the words
to articulate it then, but his ignorant arrogance, his passing of
judgment on me because of my skin color rose with a dangerous fluidity
from annoyance to anger to rage. He became King's killer. He became the
white master whipping the defenseless slave to death. He became my
race's enemy. He became my enemy. Suddenly and impulsively, I
acted.
I moved to the edge of the yard, and the anger in my face made the
little boy's confidence falter. He took a cautious step back, but he
was a second too late. He had been out of my brother's reach, and he
had been out of Cimarron's reach, but he'd failed to factor in my
unusual height. Perhaps he'd stupidly wanted to appear brave by
standing as close as possible while staying out of our reach. It was a
foolish mistake. My hand shot out and grabbed his shirt front, then I
pulled him into the street, casting my hand to the side and leaning
back with the physical elegance of a bullfighter. What was left of his
defiance melted into terror, and he screamed effeminately as he fell to
the pavement. He landed on his hands, like a child pretending to be an
animal, then he sprung back up with fear-induced speed and rushed
towards his yard, attempting to recover the diplomatic immunity of his
"embassy". I dropped him with a quick but strong right punch. He fell
down again holding his nose while blood gushed through his fingers. I
simultaneously grabbed my knuckles, wincing at the pain. I hadn't
expected my fist to hurt. On television, the hero's fist never seemed
to hurt! Only the weak and cowardly hurt themselves punching!
The boy yelped in pain and I glanced up again to see Cimarron drawing
his leg back. Then he swung it forward swiftly and kicked the child in
the stomach. "Nigger this, you little punk!" Cimarron growled through
clenched teeth.
My heart pounded in my chest, from exertion or excitement I couldn't
tell. The sight of the boy bleeding so much had made me lose all
appetite for revenge. I had decided to let my brother and Cimarron get
a few more hits before stopping them. Out of the corner of my eye I saw
my brother raise the basketball again, then slightly adjust his
position. He was aiming for the boy's face. He threw it strongly just
as the boy jerked in anticipation, and the ball bounced off of the
boy's shoulder with an audible and almost comical boing sound.
The boy himself had been crying out for mercy since he'd hit the
ground. He both apologized and revoked his labeling us as mans
countless times now. I seemed to be the only one hearing his pleas, and
I felt shame at the pity I felt. He didn't deserve pity, did he?
Then suddenly another older, more masculine voice cried out. "Hey,
what are you doing? Get away from him!" I hazarded a look and I saw a
small white man coming from the doors of the child's "embassy".
"Run!" I shouted, although both Cimarron and my brother had already
disappeared into two different directions. I fled in yet another
direction, hoping that our splitting up would confuse the man if he
pursued us. I glanced back and realized immediately that the man wasn't
giving chase. He was more concerned about his son's welfare. I stopped
and ducked behind a convenient fence, watching as the man knelt by the
boy and checked his bruises. Satisfied that his son wasn't too badly
damaged, he said simply "I told you not to play with mans. They're
too violent," His voice sounded almost too didactic and stolid for a
man standing beside his bleeding child. He picked his son up, and while
continuing to chastise him for his choice of playmates, made his way
back to the house.
"They're violent," he'd told his son, and we'd proven it to the boy in
a way the father couldn't have. We had even re-established the fact for
the father. But the boy had started it, hadn't he? Suddenly I felt sick
and confused. Had I done the right thing? Protecting my race's
honor?
The father had set the boy of the path of bigotry, but had we pushed
him? Had we started him walking? It wasn't our fault, we were minding
our own business. The other boy had started the confrontation, right? I
had done the right thing, hadn't I?
Hadn't I?