I was always drawn to those who lived on the outskirts of society, from film to music to literature; to the city streets, where of course all the trouble began. It's hard to sort out when exactly the romanticism kicked-off, though I can recall the images flashed into my young brain via the likes of
Welcome Back Kotter,
Saturday Night Fever,
The Wanderers, and the day-to-day scenes of Brooklyn in the 1970s. The well-dressed man with newspaper tucked under his arm on his way to work held no sway over me, but the shady looking toughs laughing and lounging on building stoops, doing their best to look hard... They utterly fascinated me.
Jump back to around fifth or sixth grade, and having one of my earliest one-on-one talks with my pops — it wasn't about the "birds and bees." He was explaining to me:
you bite, claw, kick, punch, smash. Whatever it takes. What you don't do is start it. Let it happen if you must, but avoid it if you can. Still, always strike first and strike hard. Make it count.
Sure pops, but couple that concept with your already legendary — in my mind at least — tales of violence in reaction to anti-Semitism in the 1950s, and how could I walk away from the slurs myself without feeling a shame that burned my insides? Forget any sort of prejudice or real hatred, how about the just the normal kid shit of the day; the street tests that were the norm? The consequences of standing tall and fighting back for pride were huge; casting a shadow both on reputation and the self for many years to come. As were the consequences from the act of backing down.
You got played-out.
I hear that kid's a fucking sucker. That's just how it was. No one wanted to be a
herb. You would wear that shit like the Scarlet Letter, and people's memories were long, or so it seemed at the time.
I can still remember what it felt like the first time I punched someone in the face. You never forget it. I was young, and this kid in my class was messing with me. He was a lot bigger, and he knocked over the blocks I was using to build my own Camelot with. I knew I had to stand-up to him, though I felt nauseous at the concept. He stepped to me and got right in my face with something along the lines of
whatcha gonna do about it? I told him to meet me in the playground at lunch break. Of course word spread and our classmates were ready for it. I walked towards him, imagining that everyone could see my knees shaking; the fear almost making me sick. As I got to him, I saw his smile and heard my pops' words in my head. I don't really know how it happened, as it was a flash, but my fist smashed into his face, and then rather than attack, I backed up fearing his reprisal. And nothing happened. He didn't do a thing, except look as though he was holding back tears. I wish I could say I felt wonderful having defeated the big bully, but I didn't. Sure, hitting him made me feel powerful and in control, but it also made me feel even sicker than I had when I was walking towards him.
The next fight didn't go nearly as well.
Words by Lee Greenfeld © 2020
Photograph by Leon Levinstein, circa mid-1950s
