Survivalist

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Survivalist

“Life is nothing but a competition to be the criminal

rather than the victim.”--Bertrand Russell.

When I was in junior high,

when Eisenhower was President,

when rock and roll was usurping

                 all that smooth post-war patter from Eddie Fisher

                                                                           Perry Como

                                                                           Frank Sinatra &

                                                                           Doris Day;

                 after we came to a non-winning stalemate in Korea,

                 setting up our own Hadrian’s Wall between

                 the north & the south, that then we had to provide

                                    boots on the ground to protect & preserve

                                    for the last sixty years;

when V-8s were commonplace,

when you could buy a used car for a hundred bucks,

                 slap on some cheap re-cap tires,

                 shake down some pals for gas money

                 so that you could cruise around town-- there was

this bothersome problem,               still prevalent today,

                                  where gangs of bullies would

                                  take over schools, beating down & victimizing

the weaker & solitary kids. I was always the new boy,

                  because we moved around a lot.

I was big for my age,

  was blessed with above average intelligence,

                 & decent study skills,

                 & very good grades (another form of competition)--

big enough to be an athlete or thug,

but smart enough to hang out with the nerds, & as such

                 became a threat to a pugnacious pod 

                           of juvenile delinquents at Denny Junior High

                           in 1957. 

Four or five of them would catch me

                  in the gym locker room,

                  in the halls between classes,

                  or outside the cafeteria,

                  or out on the playground--hold my arms

behind me & punch me out,

                     take my lunch, tear my clothes,

                           stomp my books, or

                           break my glasses. Outraged,

I would complain to the teachers,

                            to the Principal’s office,

                            to the Vice Principal,

                            to the gym instructors,

but they would just give me a blank stoic stare, assuming

I was just a big pussy, a cry baby; they seemed

                            disinterested, or worse, powerless.

I certainly did not realize it at the time,

but that critical situation represented

                                      the cauldron, the forge that

                                      my personality would emerge from,

and it became evident that that was just

the way the World works. The solution

had to be either fists or brains, for

                 I refused to accept the role of victim.

                 I decided to utilize both assets equally.

Whenever I encountered any member of the gang alone,

                 I would attack him immediately, breaking noses,

                             breaking jaws, knocking out teeth,

                                            kicking knee caps, & pounding

                                                        heads into metal lockers;

& when I was sent to the Office for “fighting”,

   when we were both sitting in those high-backed chairs

                 in front of the Vice-Principal, he would take a long moment

                 & stare at both of us intently;

me, the straight A student defending myself, &

him, the dull-eyed punk who liked to skip classes &

                 would soon be just another drop-out.

He would be expelled.

I was sent back to class with a slap on the wrist.

I repeated that scenario several times

until I had created a bit of a safety zone around me,

& was finally left alone,

           but I knew that I was not a winner

           in that sad story line, even when in the cat bird seat;

no, I was simply a survivor, who for a tentative moment

          breathed the rarified air on top of the heap, 

                         just before slipping back down amongst the throng,

                                           keenly aware that it made no sense to keep

                        score, as divers check marks were penciled into

               win/lose columns; all randomly, spontaneously,

absurdly, even unfairly, reducing their impact

& tangible importance. 

Even today, as a retiree,

I am still more the survivor than the winner

in the game of life, & my scars,

injuries & losses

just make interesting fodder

for my poetry. 

                  

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over on dVerse Poets Poetics

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