How I Became a Renegade and a Savage

Until the age of 7, I was mostly a nice, mild-mannered little kid. And then something woke up inside of me. I did not choose that awakening. I was only a young child. The world set in on me. And I became what I had to become to endure the world.

My father had grown up in poverty in the inner city. He had no father. But his mother and every adult in the neighborhood beat the children, including him. So my father beat me, in particular, because I was a boy. But he also beat me because he knew that I was greater than him. From a very young age. And he was afraid of me.

My old man was beating me

Learned me violent tendency

So I beat the willow tree

Knuckles never healed

At the start of second grade, I retained some modest degree of faith in the world. In order. In authority. In the ultimate fairness of things. In spite of my father. In spite of going to bed at night and crying to my mother, asking why my father hated me so much.

But then I encountered Mrs. Wentz. She is dead now. I wonder what of her soul. And I do not hesitate to declare that she was a monster. She was a screamer. We were small children. And she screamed at us like she was a guard in a prison camp. Each day, she required one of us to stand in front of the class and lead us all in a rousing chorus of God Bless America. And, likewise, each day, she required two students to stand behind her at her desk and rub and scratch her back. I felt so uncomfortable the day she made me stand behind her and scratch her back and rub her shoulders. I did not want to do it. But I was 7 and had not yet been born into the wildcard renegade crusader motherfucker that I would eventually be. So I stood there and rubbed her shoulders with my compatriot, who looked clueless to what the fuck was going on. But I was not clueless. Not yet wide awake. But more awake than any 7 year old you have ever met. Rural Pennsylvania in 1988. Wild shit.

I quickly realized that Mrs. Wentz was angry and had failed at her life. She was miserable. She was unfulfilled. She had no power outside of that classroom. And so, within that classroom, she would lord her power over us like a malicious god. So I set out to challenge her. This was my first encounter with the logic of cowards and scoundrels: That's just the way it is. I make the rules. The world is not fair. You just have to accept things the way they are. Or I will break you.

When I would question her rules and pronouncements. When I would question the world. When I would advocate for ideas of justice and equality and fairness --- She would openly scorn and mock me. I would say that someone should make things more fair. She would laugh her shrill laugh and jeer at me: Who? Who is going to make things more fair? You? Ha. And I said quietly but defiantly: Maybe I will.

At 7, any semblance of respect or regard I had for authority was already gone.

My mother was not the authority. She was my mother and the truest reflection of love and selflessness. She was my first, best friend in the world. I did not conceptualize her as among the authorities. She was something so much greater, wiser, and purely good. Something from God.

Authority on earth was something from man. And, true to its origins, corrupted. And I knew that. At 7. I knew that all of man's laws and authorities were corrupted. Navigate them. Abide them as necessary. But do not trust them and never bow to them. Challenge them. Become a renegade and a leader of renegades, north star freedom bound, in pursuit of justice and truth.

I was on the playground. Early winter and cold, but still tolerable. This was 1988. A shrimpy first grader who is a year younger than me tells me that he hates coons. I'm confused. For my part, I have never encountered a raccoon. Even if I had, I doubt that I would hate them. Hate is a strong word. I express my confusion. He says coons again. You know. Coons. But I do not not know. Yet. Up until that moment in my life and in the world, I was completely unaware of color. It had never occurred to me.

I look confused. This kid - whose name escapes me - pulls onto his face this air of smug and knowing satisfaction. He says to me, "No, I don't mean raccoons. I mean niggers."

Is there a cosmic, ancestral memory? I ask because, at that moment, I became suddenly aware of this special hatred that existed in the world. I was guilty of no great transgressions. I had not transgressed against this child. But his hatred for me was unequivocal.

I finished the day and went home. I was confused. I was disturbed. I asked my mother. I remember the heartbreak in her face as she dropped to one need to comfort me. My mother is white. My father came home. My mother told my father. My father was outraged.

On the playground. Another day. Still winter. Out of nowhere, this kid (another kid) cold clocks me. Straight shot to my left eye. Again, I had not transgressed against this boy, who was only six and much smaller than me. I could have manhandled if I had a mind to. But I did not have such a mind. He had caught me by surprise. In that moment, I did not want vengeance. I was scared and confused. I only wanted to know why. Nobody throws a shot like that at six years old who hasn't himself been clocked in the face. As, indeed, he had been. Already.

And, just like that, by winter of 1988, I had become a different person and a different breed. I knew that the world was fucked up. And the world was only people. As went the world, so went the people.

So the people were fucked up. And the people would hurt you. The people would hate you on no account of anything you had ever done. They would enslave you and enlist you to serve in their own misery. They would set out to break your spirit. There was only one thing for it.

To rebel. To never surrender. To keep the faith. To fight back. With whatever powers I had. To acquire more powers. To fight back harder. Until I was dead.

JP