I was watching an episode of The Wonder Years the other night. In it, the main character, Kevin, was getting picked on at school—and that took me back. Way back.
I moved up to Todd County in May of 1974 from Miami, Florida. My family had just bought Grandpa’s farm, and to me, it felt like stepping into a dream. The open fields, the slower pace, the familiar scent of hay and tobacco barns—it was a far cry from living in a neighborhood, and I loved it.
When school started, I found myself the new kid once again. I was used to that—Dad had been in the military, and moving was just part of life. But this place was different. Todd County was home for my parents, and I had spent every summer here. It wasn’t all unfamiliar territory.
I started eighth grade at Clifty Elementary. I made a few friends, and even better—my second cousin was in my class. Still, not everyone was happy to see a new face. There was a group of guys who, for reasons I never fully understood, decided they didn’t like me. Maybe it was my sun-bleached, longer hair, or maybe just the fact that I wasn’t “from around here.” Whatever it was, they made it known.
At first, it was small things—snide comments, name-calling, even a few attempts to trip me in the hallway. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t nervous. But I wasn’t a stranger to fights, either. I’d learned a thing or two from bouncing around different schools.
Then came the day things boiled over.
My cousin and I had just left the lunchroom and were headed to the gym. I remember I was eating a popsicle, probably grape or cherry. We were headed to the gym because that’s where we always went after lunch. One of those guys walked up behind me and shoved me hard. I lost my footing and went down, scraping my elbow against the concrete stairs.
That was it.
I stood up, handed my popsicle to my cousin—calm as could be—and said, “Hold this.”
Then I launched myself at the guy. We flew off the side of the steps, maybe five feet down, and I started swinging. I landed punch after punch until someone pulled me off him. I don’t remember much else—just the heat rising in my face, the blood on his face, and the raw rush of finally standing up for myself.
I’m not saying fighting is the answer, but sometimes, as a kid, that’s just how it was. You had to earn your respect the hard way, even if it meant standing your ground with your fists. That moment didn’t just settle the score—it sent a message. I wasn’t looking for trouble, but I wasn’t going to back down from it either. Word got around fast after that. People who wouldn’t give me the time of day before started nodding in the hallways. Some even wanted to be friends. After that day, no one picked on me again, and in a way, that scuffle on the stairs marked the day I stopped being the new kid and started belonging.