I moved from Alpine, Texas to Valdosta, Georgia, in the summer of 1988. I was 13 years old. We drove a big Dodge van and a U-Haul moving truck, and I think towed a car behind the moving truck. The van had two bench seats behind the cab area, with a majority of the back as rough, open space. In Alpine we had used the van for four years like a work truck. We moved construction materials from Alpine to Terlingua Ranch, where we built a small cabin in the desert below the Chisos Mountains. We used it to move construction materials for a car port, barn, and fence we put into the empty lot next to our house, and to move hay bales and feed for our horse, Painted Lynx. It was a utilitarian beater van and we piled it full of belongings, two dogs, and a cat for that long drive to Valdosta, Georgia. The horse stayed behind. We drove Interstate 10 most of the way, crossing desert, dried out hill country with scrub oak, pine barrens, cypress swamps, and more pine barrens. The geography went from flat where we hit I-10 near Fort Stockton in west Texas to flatter by the time we reached Valdosta, leaving I-10 somewhere in the Florida panhandle. I'm not sure even the Texas hill country displayed any remarkable elevation. We reached Valdosta in near the end of August, pulling into a large half circle drive with flanked by slash pines and dark green azalea bushes, at the back of which was a white ranch style home which looked rather elegant and formal compared to the simple ranch house we moved away from in Texas. Our Dodge van looked out of place. I remember opening the side door of the van and some plastic bags full of clothes tumbled out onto the asphalt driveway. I had a ceramic painting of a battle from the England's War of the Roses wrapped in clothes in one the of the plastic bags that fell out of the van. It broke into pieces. It reflected me perfectly.
I tell my daughters about how awkward I was in my teens. To illustrate this best, I tell them how my twin brother, Leif, and I started seventh grade in Valdosta, Georgia, at Valwood School. During lunch breaks we stood behind a large bush next to the entrance of the cafeteria and slowly plucked leaves off, tearing each one into tiny little fragments. No talking, just plucking and tearing leaves. That's what we did on our lunch breaks for the opening several months of seventh grade, probably well into 1989. We were not hiding. We were in plain view of everyone walking in and out of the cafeteria. The teachers must have been worried. I can only imagine what our classmates thought of us.
Leif and I had a hard time fitting in with the other kids. Valwood was a private school. Valdosta, population 50,000, was a large city compared to Alpine, which had under 5,000 people. The public schools in Valdosta were huge. The idea of moving away from Alpine had traumatized my twin and I so much that my parents agreed to send us to the small private school called Valwood where they felt we would feel more comfortable. With our older brother, Tor, there were three of us, so the school gave my parents a tuition break. Tor was going into 10th grade, played football and so had a scholarship for that. My grandma paid the remainder of the tuition. There were a handful of kids at the school like us, not well off and needing scholarships to attend. Most of the kids came from wealthy families. Leif and I didn't have a stitch of name brand clothing. We had generic shoes from who knows where. We had to bring our lunches from home rather that buying food from the rather well appointed cafeteria. I suppose we could have fit in if we tried, but that had never been our modus operandi. We were born shy, as our mom loved to tell us. We were built in friends of sorts, generally happy in each others company and could go comfortably for hours without talking.
Among the boys in our grade there were two popular activities - hanging out at lakes on boats and hunting. The class nerd, Matt, perhaps also on a scholarship, liked to play with Legos. We just couldn't bring ourselves to do any of that with them. Tor did well. He was a hunter in Texas and could fish on the lakes in Georgia.
A painful memory from that first year in Valdosta. My mom made a girl friend who had a younger daughter, probably five years younger than us. Leif and I had been awesome baby sitters for the three kids of family friends back in Alpine, so mom said we would make great baby sitters for her new friend's daughter. We sat down and watched TV with her for three hours, never saying a single word. At one point she started singing along to a bouncy Publix grocery store commercial, "...bring it all together at Publix..." We glared at her and she stopped singing. After her mom picked her up she broke into tears. Our mom lost a new friend. Yes, we were awkward. We were shell shocked into silence. Seventh grade was the worst year of my life. Several times we broke down in tears as my parents got ready to drop us at school. We refused to go, collapsed to the ground. We were 13 years old.
Over the course of three years in Alpine, Texas, we had battled our way into acceptance and even to the margins of the popular crowd. I didn't get into any fights in seventh grade in Valdosta. My classmates had never seen fights. The concept of a school fight at Valwood seemed inconceivable to them. The boys often played touch football during morning class breaks. Leif and I enjoyed football and joined in with sixth and seventh graders. My mom had bought me a new cotton jacket, mint colored with a brass zipper, that looked rather preppy. I wore it everyday in the mild winter of 88/89. We were trying to fit in. (My mom also bought me my first pair of name brand shoes, leather deck shoes, and a t-shirt from Banana Republic.) During these touch football games one of my classmates, Micah, liked to grab and yank my jacket instead of doing a standard, simple touch. One day he started doing yanking on my jacket just to pull me out of plays and laughed derisively each time. Then I was running a ball back, weaving, dodging, and Micah caught my jacket, pulled it over my head, and dragged me off the grass on onto the sidewalk that way, still on my feet, but unable to see. I stood up and kicked him in the balls so hard his nuts could have ended up in Scotland on dinner plates. Micah limped, doubled over, back into the school, tears streaming down his face. No one knew what to so say or do. They'd never seen anything like it. Micah shuffled around in pain for the remainder of the day. I still wonder if I caused him permanent damage. He never bothered me again. He never told the teachers what I'd done. I don't know why. That was my "fight" from seventh grade.
Eighth grade was marginally better. We has several news students, none who seemed to be from wealthy backgrounds and may also have been on scholarships or reduced tuition. One, Becky, is without doubt the most award person I've ever been around. She always hid her face behind a screen of long hair, spoke in painful whispers that were normally inaudible, was hunched over, and wore Punky Brewster shoes. Another, Alex, vied for the position of class nerd, wore thick glasses, had an Afro and mustache, and occasionally did spontaneous ballet maneuvers on top of the picknick tables. The previous year, our classmate Eric, aka Rudy Booty, told me that no one like me. I still hear his words; "Why are you even here? No one likes you." Eric had his own struggles with being accepted and fitting in, and apologized to me later that day for his words. In eight grade I could imagine someone saying the same thing to Becky or Alex.
In eight grade I got into one fight. It was with our PE teacher, Coach P.
Coach Platania arrived in eight grade as our new PE teacher. He had a daughter who attended the lower school on a full scholarship. Coach P drove a small two door Honda or Toyota hatchback. He was bigger than the car. He was massive. He had a very obvious bump on one shoulder that was a fat deposit. We called it Freddy the Fat Deposit. He was bald, but always had a stubble of spiky hair on his shiny bald head. He had a beard, which was unusual in Valdosta in the 1980s. We wore glasses. He looked and moved something like a bald gorilla in glasses. Coach P was a nice man. For someone so large and overweight he was a very dedicated PE teacher. He coached the middle school basketball team. I don't know anything about his life before coming to Valwood except that at some point in the past he had been a bar bouncer.
One beautiful spring afternoon Coach P had us in a combined class with the 9th graders, co-ed. It was a small school so boys and girls were always together in PE. We were playing baseball. Let's say the azaleas were blooming because I remember it was a beautiful day. Baseball frustrates me. I can't hit, throw, or catch. I'm sure I'd struck out once or twice this class already. But is was a beautiful day. My next at bat I hit a double, first time ever. It was so exciting. Kevin, brother to fraternal twin Geoff and sons of the middle school English teacher and dean, was playing first base. Kevin and Geoff were also reduced tuition guys. As I rounded first base Kevin laughed and hit me in the face with his glove. Why? No idea. We were on good terms. As I ran on towards second base a rage filled in me. Kevin was still laughing. My face hurt. I turned around and sprinted right back into him. I was broken, almost two years of frustration with my life in Georgia pouring out as fists into Kevin's face.
I have a vague sensation of Coach P yelling, then grabbing me off Kevin. He was yelling and pushing me backwards. When coach P was mad his whole head turned bright red. He was mad. "What the hell are you doing! You can't do that to people!" What are you thinking!" and pushing me. I was screaming back at him then; "I'm so fucking tired of this school, of these people! They never leave me alone!" I was screaming something along those lines, tears streaming down, and then charged at Coach P, shoved him backwards. I remember his next words exactly. "If you ever touch me again you will wake up in a hospital."
Things came back into clear focus. There Coach P and I were squared off against each other, Kevin still in a heap on the ground not far away, Leif and Geoff standing nearby, the five of us surrounded by the rest of the 8th and 9th grades, all of the popular kids laughing and pointing. I had another realization as sharp as the one I'd had after chasing David to the top of a stranger's roof in sixth grade back in Alpine, Texas, a gang of classmates surrounding the corner of the house yelling at me to kick David's ass. Then I realized I was a bully. I had fought so hard to be left alone by kids being kids that I'd become the bully. No here I was two years later, my soul in anguish, Kevin hurt, Coach P threating to put me in a hospital and lose his job, Leif and Josh ready to intervene one way or another, and all those rich, well put together, popular kids laughing at the spectacle. We were always the losers. Fighting achieved nothing except to make us, the leftover losers, an entertaining sport for those rich people who always stayed clean, always had an easy time way up high above the fray.
Coach P said we were going to the Principal's office, now. It was a hard edged order. We set off, Leif right behind us. Soon all of our classmates were following. Halfway to the classroom buildings Coach P stopped. He looked at me, Leif, then all those other students. "I have a better idea. Let's just check on Kevin." That was the end of it. I think he decided that taking me to the Principal was a bad idea. The Principal would have heard that he'd been pushing me and had threatened to put me in the hospital. But I never would have told the principal that. I felt worse for Coach P than anyone else out there. We were the losers. I wanted to tell him him everything and never did. What was everything? That we were cut from the same cloth, Kevin and Geoff too, all the same. We were all fighting the wrong people. We were all fighting each other when there was no reason for us to be fighting. Fuck those rich people. Fuck this place, this school, this city, the endless rows of slash pines, the root bear colored water that stunk like turpentine, the mosquitos, sand fleas and no see'ems, the steamy air that sucks away the will to move, the extra boat houses on private lakes, tanned girls in their bikinis, gun clubs and country clubs, luxury cars, houses with five to ten bathrooms, and perfect hair. Fuck it all.
I never said anything to Coach P. We stayed quiet, remained on decent terms without ever mentioning what happened that day. He left Valwood two years later. Leif and I became decent friends with Kevin and Geoff, who graduated from Valwood one year before we did. Leif and I stuck it out, graduating in 1994. The school, located on Gornto Road and surrounded by woods on three sides, is gone. It move to the countryside two or three years after we graduated to become a proper prep academy. Where the old school stood there is now a cinema complex. The woods have been completely replaced by neighborhood houses.
That spring day in 1989, playing baseball on Valwood's football field, was the last time I ever struck someone in anger. My last fight, in other words. I hit people playing football throughout high school, and playing stickball in college, but that was all sanctioned violence in good fun without any of the deep, horribly raw emotions. The few remaining times in high school when I was tempted by anger to fight someone I stopped myself. I had reached the conclusion through experience that fighting ends badly even when you win.
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