Immediately after that violent confrontation. A nearby car was started and Burt Reece, who was now losing blood rapidly, was ushered into the car and taken to The Spanish Town Hospital. Where appropriately qualified medical personnel attended to his needs. Now that I reminisce upon all that had transpired, I come to the realization that Teacher Reece had quietly witnessed all the unfolding events. She was fully aware of the physical abuses her son had been inflicting upon smaller children. Unfortunately, however, she had done nothing to staunch his avalanche of mischief. Her own parental neglect had almost occasioned the tragic death of her own dearly beloved son. The last time I heard anything about Mr. Burt Reece, he was Dr. Burt Reece, a practicing surgeon in the City of Huntsville, Alabama. My ex-brother-in-law described him to me and couldn’t help mentioning the very prominent scar on his forehead. The wound that I had visited upon his ‘temple’ couldn’t have hurt him intellectually, and my thanks are due to The Lord Almighty. Nevertheless, he is destined to carry that ugly scar upon his face for the rest of his life. As a fitting testament and permanent trophy of his childhood folly. The contempt with which he regarded a visible but inconvenient boundary.
During the purported administration of the punishment delivered to me, by my grand aunt. I jumped up and down appropriately. As if I was actually feeling pain. Because although I felt no discomfort from her gentle strokes, I was nonetheless emotionally mortified and publicly humiliated. I wept in shame. I had responded firmly to the egregious provocation that I had been forced to endure. My violent actions, however, were unacceptable. I had shed blood and threatened the life of the principal’s son. My grandaunt said nothing further to me after I arrived home that day. I remained in meditative silence. A few days later Ms. Sarah made a routine visit to a friend and fellow church member. Whose home was located directly behind Mrs. Reece’s private school. That woman had only one question: “Ms. Sarah, why did you flog Chubby? (That was my nickname). The Principal’s son is even more rotten than rotten eggs! “He is rotten; he is rotten; he is rotten.” She repeatedly asserted. Do you have any idea how many children he has bullied mercilessly? He got just what he deserved.” Apparently, the flogging that was publicly imparted to me, seemed real enough! My guardian’s only response was, “You see, I didn’t know.” She reported everything back to me. The community at large considered my actions to be courageous and honorable. My grandaunt was fully vindicated and so was I.
Two new Indian brothers were matriculated as students at the Titchfield Secondary School. Their mother brought them there in person to enroll them at that Institution. We soon became good friends and went out on the school grounds to play frequently. We were full of energy and had a lot of fun. One of the games we played innocently was just throwing small stones at each other. This game seemed harmless enough until one of my friends was struck in the skull with a stone and his scalp started to bleed generously. They quickly ran home and his mother was certainly not appreciative of this gesture. Although I had quietly retreated to my classroom and was sitting in my chair in front of the teacher. Their mother appeared and I was summoned to the principal’s office. I attempted to explain to the Head Master that we were playing and that what happened was only an accident. He just didn’t seem to be able to understand my point. He ordered me to stretch out my hands and I was administered six strokes. Three in each hand with a firm leather belt. That in those days couldn’t have been less than 4′ wide. Once again I was constrained to shed many tears. But I learned that at all times we will be held responsible for our actions, even though we may believe that we are really innocent. When their mother saw my tears I observed no malice in her face only love and compassion. However, she probably felt that my childhood propensities needed some bridling. After that painful experience, I don’t think I ever threw another stone at any other human being again.
Where I presently reside, there are two porches attached to my apartment. One at the front and another at the back. After moving here and renting this abode initially, I observed that my neighbors had some serious boundary issues. Those in the apartment on my left would venture onto my front porch with their friends. They would play football, skate, wrestle, and sometimes even damage the mesh over my front window by grabbing it during their wrestling bouts. At night they would turn on my porch light and study there. At my expense while consuming my electrical credits. Sometimes they even created a raucous with their loud bacchanalian laughing and bantering. I continued to observe them and suffer in silence. Because I knew that my tenant’s rights were being violated and my unique privileges were being trampled upon. Since I was the one who leased this apartment and paid the required rent. Providence must have been aware of my silent seething and angry frustration. One night while they were all on my porch enjoying themselves. A powerful breeze blew in from the North and dislodged the bulb from its receptacle. Suddenly they were all plunged into darkness. Gradually they quietly slinked away to their respective habitats. Since I neither repaired that fixture nor replaced that bulb. No one visited that porch again after dark.
(TO BE CONTINUED).
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