|
THE SCARS REMAIN by Stuart Allen Gomez
I went down.
Hard.
I almost
didn't get up...ever. The other two stood and watched me fall; watched him do
it, and did not act. Sure, they felt fear of retaliation by this otherwise good
and charismatic man who had literally gone insane. But at some point there
should be a mental trigger, a threshold where the brutality becomes too much
and it’s time to intervene, despite any consequences. Yes, the word
"stop!" was uttered, but one of them needed to physically intervene
by jumping in the way or incapacitating him. This was not done. My life was in
his hands, and he was taking it, shamelessly.
Ouch.
Then,
inexplicably, the battery of punches stopped. I lay in a floating stupor above
that blue carpet in a trance of absolute helplessness. Other than the impact of
the initial blows, the pain did not come yet, but I still could not get up.
About 5
minutes later, I got up (it seemed like 5 hours) and stood tall. I looked
outside and he was still ballistic, circling, punching air and hurling
obscenities and threats. The two bystanders did get involved at this point. One
was in the room and asked me: "Are you okay?" Not an easy question to
answer at this point. The other one was outside, trying to reason with someone
who had lost all sense of it.
This would
have been the perfect time to "settle the score." The damage was to
my head and neck, not my body. Again, the pain had not come yet. Like a cheetah
squinting its eyelids, frozen and studying it's prey, I observed him as he
ranted on outside. I could tell he was exhausted from the initial bludgeon. He
was awkward, disoriented, and still intoxicated.
It would've
been too easy.
I found out
later that the reason he stopped hitting me was because the bones in his hand
had shattered. Yet he still "wanted shit." In this condition, he
would be no match for my adrenaline fused demeanor and the hard strength that
comes from 7 years of blue collar and construction work. I wanted to bury him
in a broken pile like he just did me! I had been sufficiently scorned to
actually do it.
Instead, I
did nothing.
Standing
there, I looked at her, shook my head and said: "I'm not going out there
to fight, I have class tomorrow. I'm a teacher." I then went to bed, but
not to sleep. The pain came creeping, intensifying into an onslaught. My
perceptions were justified as just 15 minutes later he was already passed out,
snoring unhealthily loud. Didn't need me to "knock him out."
The last time
I marched as a part of the Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. holiday, I noticed
scores of "Scarface" t-shirts and clothing on people. Man, if you're
down with that, whatever. This is America. Just choose to leave those things on
hangars on this special holiday. That message is so against what MLK stood for:
Nonviolence. Yes, the FICTIONAL Tony Montana spared the children, so he did
have some ethics. But vengeance is vengeance, and violence is violence.
I said no to
that game.
I showed
mercy to someone who didn't deserve it. Yes, later it made me seem like a
"pussy" for not retaliating. But I would be a hypocrite for going to
those marches, then not heeding Dr. King's message. Peace is not some abstract
concept. It is do-able, right here, maybe even tonight.
I walked
away, leaving forever that tiny rental room in a northeast suburban house.
Leaving forever a life of willing cooperation and cohabitation with roommates
whose futures once had so much promise. The betrayal was absolute.
I now live
alone.
I balance the
silence at home with a reverence for family, friends, and "the scene"
when I'm out. And yes, even them. Redemption, forgiveness, and most
importantly, healing have occurred. We have all moved on, though the reality
is: the physical and mental scars remain.
And remain.
|