Freaks Macintosh Archive/Freaks Macintosh Archive.bin/Freaks Macintosh Archives/Textfiles/zines/fuck/fuckvl07.sit/fuckvl07 Folder/FUCK0165.TXT

Text File | 1995-12-05 | 23KB | 511 lines

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=  F.U.C.K. - Fucked Up College Kids - Born Jan. 24th, 1993 - F.U.C.K.  =
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P.S. Don't read this if you are in a good mood.  It's an almost certain
     cure for good moods.

                             A Voyager's Parables
                             --------------------


A child learns many lessons as he progresses to maturity.  Here are a
few I learned.

-+-

When I was 5 I went off to school.  At school, we we going to have a
foot race. The winner was to receive a model airplane.  I ran as fast as
my legs could carry me.  I lost.

Moral of this story:  The system rewards winning, excuses are valueless.

-+-

That same year, I had my first run in with the powers that be in our
educational system.  I did not want to take a nap during the day.  The
system required that I take a nap.  It was my internal biological clock
(As a 5 year old, I did not fully understand diurnal cycles) versus the
power of the teacher.  I was defeated, and I at least pretended to take
my naps.

Moral of this story:  The system rewards conformity, even when it is
                      inefficient.

-+-

When I was 6, I had a teacher who I did not get along with.  No one
cared.  I stayed in the same class.

Moral of this story:  The powerless have no options.

-+-

When I was 8, I had a fellow named Alexander in my class at school.
Alexander was a bright fellow, if a bit quiet.  Alexander was also small
for his age.  I liked Alexander, as I usually like quiet people. One day
when I referred to him as Alexander he corrected me and told me his name
was Alex.  I made a mental note not to call him Alexander again.

A few weeks later, I mistakenly called him Alexander again.  He rebuked
me strongly, and I immediately apologized.  Several days after that, I
again mistakenly called him Alexander.  I apologized immediately, but he
did not believe me.  He was very angry with me.  I liked Alex, but I was
not bothered by this, because he was very small.

Later that week, Alex's 12 years old brother and three of his friends
met me at the school bus stop and beat me so bad I had to be sent to the
hospital.  I still have the scar from the stitches.

Moral of this story:  Social skills are very important.

-+-

That same year, I again had problems with a teacher.  Mrs. Grady was
very sexist, and she did not like little boys.  This was plain to see,
even in the eyes of a 3rd grader.  I made life difficult for Mrs. Grady.
She made life difficult for me.  I spent most of 3rd grade sitting alone
in the hall outside the classroom.  I spoke politely and calmly to the
principal about the issue.  He ignored me completely.

The final straw was when Mrs. Grady cheated during a spelling contest,
causing me to be disqualified and causing a your girl in the classroom
to go to the school wide competition in my stead.  When finally I could
take no more, I simply yelled "Mrs. Grady is a bitch" in the hall
outside my classroom during a class change.  The principal stopped
ignoring me.

I was kicked out of school.

Moral of this story:  The powerless may empower themselves, but the costs
                      may be high.

-+-

After I was kicked out of school, my parents moved to a new part of town
and I was again enrolled in school.  From this school, I had a long walk
home.  One day, on the way home, I passed a cute little girl playing
with about ten young boys.  She looked at me and asked her young friends
to please beat me up.  They did.

Moral of this story:  Power corrupts.

-+-

When I was growing up, I was very afraid of my step-father.  He had a
very violent temper, and no special love for me.  One day when I was 9 I
was walking down a short hallway in our home.  My step-father came out
of the bedroom at the end of the hall.  Suddenly, I was filled with
fear.  I was certain he was going to hit me.  I pressed my body up
against the wall and waited for him to pass.  He saw the terror in my
eyes.  I was relieved to see him pass by, until he turned around and hit
me so hard it knocked me into the door at the end of the hall.  I do not
think he would have hit me had he not seen the look of fear in my eyes.
The thought of a 9 year old child so afraid of him enraged him to
action.

Moral of this story:  Fear is just a waste of time.

-+-

That year was not all bad.  There was a contest at school, and all of
the winners got to go see the circus.  I was among the winners, so after
school one day I was bussed off to the circus.  The circus lasted into
the evening and was quite entertaining. Unfortunately I had no money
and there was no water fountain at the circus, so I was very thirsty and
very hungry by the end of the evening.

When I got home that evening, I went immediately to the kitchen and
began to drink heavily.  My mother and step-father asked me why I was so
thirsty and why I was getting home so late.  I did not know what else to
say, so I told them I had been to the circus, and had not been able to
buy refreshments.

They reprimanded me for not telling them and asking them for money to go
to the circus.  I did not know how to tell them I was afraid to ask them
for money.  I shut up and nodded.

Moral of this story:  You never know the rules until after you've played
                      the game.

-+-

Later that year, I was waiting in the lunch line at the school.  This
young girl about my size kicked me.  I ignored her, not knowing what to
do when a girl kicked me.  She kicked me again.  I hit her.

She screamed and several staff members came over.  I explained what
happened. They told me I should not hit girls.  I explained she had
kicked me first, but they did not seem interested.  The little girl was
not reprimanded, though she did not envy kicking me.  I was not allowed
to use the school lunch room ever again.

Moral of this story:  Justice is not to be had from the authorities.

-+-

After that incident, Mom gave me money every week to buy lunch at the
Dairy Queen across the street from the school.  I discovered that if I
had a light lunch, I could buy marbles at the David's by our apartment.
Everyone at our school played marbles, mostly due to the predominately
Vietnamese population.  I later discovered that I could sell the
"shooter" marble from the bag of marbles I purchased for almost as much
as I paid for the whole bag.

Moral of this story:  Getting in trouble isn't always bad.

-+-

The path to David's was beside a large stream that wandered through
town.  We played in the stream, usually catching crawdads.  On one
particular day, I was standing on a small dam and skipping stones into
to river.  A boy a little larger than myself came up and started to
throw stones with me.

After about a half an hour, he pushed me and I fell into the stream. I
came out fighting mad.  He quickly apologized, and said he fell into me
on accident.  I slowly accepted his apology and we went back to throwing
stones.  Fifteen or twenty minutes later, he pushed me into the stream
again.  By the time I got myself out, he had run off.

Moral of this story:  People are not to be trusted.

-+-

A David's is much like a K-Mart or a Target.  The entry hall to David's
was not very visible from inside the store, but it contained a
mechanical riding horse and several gumball machines.

One of the gumball machines was broken.  I took a bag and turned the
knob again and again and again until I had all of the gumballs.  I went
home and hid them in my closet.

Moral of this story:  Crime pays.

-+-


Walking home from school one day during that same year, a young boy I
did not know decided to start a fight with me.  I had little choice in
the matter.  He displayed a pocket knife and then preceeded to attack me
with it.

For a time, I successfully defended myself.  Then his older brother came
along.  From my previous experience with older brothers, I was certain I
was headed for some serious pain.  The older brother grabbed the
younger brother, took the knife away from him, and yelled at him as he
dragged him home.

Moral of this story:  Sometimes things just work out for the best.

-+-

I was attending the same school the next year, and walking the same walk
home.  By this time I was having a bit of trouble.  I was 10, and in the
5th grade.  A group of half a dozen 6th graders were catching me on the
way home and beating me almost every day.  I was not very skilled
physically, and was not doing well against them.

After a time, I decided to talk to one of the kids mothers.  They were
neighbors of ours and she and my mother were friends.  I went to their
door, and Sean's mother answered.  I explained my story, and ask for her
assistance.  She explained that I should not bother her again.

Giving up on that strategy, I went to the school authorities.  One of
the school administrators called all of the boys who were beating me
into his office. There we all were, together.  I was certain things
would be set aright now.  The administrator turned to me and asked my to
explain why I was provoking these boys into beating me up every day.  I
could not answer his queries, as I had no idea why they had chosen this
particularly odd hobby.  The administrator became frustrated with my
lack of an answer, and sent us all away.

The beatings continued until my family moved at the end of the school
year.

Moral of this story:  Weakness is not rewarded.

-+-

I started the next school year at another school in another state.
Student Council elections were the first day of school.  I entered, and
won.  All of the girls voted for me to spite the popular boys who were
acting arrogantly.  I had great amounts of fun and was an excellent
council member.  I later started a school newspaper.

Moral of this story:  Humility pays.

-+-

At Christmas break, Grandma came to visit and she took me back home to
live with her.  I was enrolled in a school in a very rural school
district.

On the first day of class my new home room teacher, Mr. Nelson, asked
the entire class to turn in the four book reports that were due from
before Christmas break.  Almost the entire class looked at him like he
was insane.  I say almost, because there were two exceptions, Mr.
Nelson's son and his son's girlfriend.

Mr. Nelson would not believe the stuents who told him that he had not
assigned the book reports.  He stated that now 8 book reports would be
due, one every two weeks.

I did not intend to deal with a fool like this, so over the next two
weeks I read 8 books and wrote 8 book reports.  This would keep me out
of trouble for the rest of the year.  On the day to turn in the first
book report, I turned in all 8 instead.  I was very pleased with my
work.

When the day came to turn in the second book report, Mr. Nelson demanded
my book report.  I stated that I had turned it in previously.  He denied
that I had done so, and stated that he was going to administer corporal
punishment.  Corporal punishment meant bending over while Mr. Nelson hit
you with a wooden paddle.  Not my idea of fun.  Not my idea of good
child rearing practices.  Not my idea of something a school official
should be given the right to do.

I argued.  I complained.  I demanded to speak to the principal.
Eventually, I ended up in front of the principal, with Mr. Nelson by my
side.  I explained my story, and Mr. Nelson denied it.  I stood my
ground, and Mr. Nelson eventually broke down.  He admitted receiving my
8 book reports, and agreed to give my 1/2 point of extra credit for
each.  That would raise my grade from an A+ to an A+.  However, it would
also keep me from corporal punishment.  I was also required to turn in
book reports with the rest of the class, but was not allowed to turn in
the reports I had previously presented.

Throughout the remainder of the year, Mr. Nelson took every opportunity
to find me worthy of corporal punishment.  He succeeded on many
occasions.  I would often be forced to bend over as he hit me once or
repetitively with that wooden paddle.  However, at the end of the school
year Mr. Nelson was let go from his teaching position.  I had won.

Moral of this story:  Standing up for yourself is going to hurt, but it
                      can be successful.

-+-

On the third day of class, right in the middle of the previous incident,
I had a bit of trouble in music class.  We were learning some sort of
folk dance, and this fellow named Mike stepped on my toes.  I looked at
him, and he wandered off.  Several minutes later, he stepped on my toes
again.  I told him to be careful, and he wandered off.  A few minutes
later, he stepped on my toes again.  I explained to him that if it
happened again, I was going to deck him.  In a short while, it happened
again. As promised, I decked him.  He went down, and he did not come
back up.

I received three days of in-school suspension, during which time Mike
and I became best friends.

Moral of this story:  People respect strength.

-+-

That Summer, I was looking forward to going off to Summer Camp.  When the
time came, I did not do so well.  My social skills were quite pathetic
and I was not making friends.  One day, twenty or so of the other
campers were throwing insults at me.  I told them to put up or shut up,
to fight or to be quiet.  I intended to take them on one at a time, and
expected they would agree to this.  I figured that if I took out the
first two or three, the rest would leave me alone.

They did not agree to me terms, and instead rushed me all at once.  I
held my own for less than a minute before I was taken.  My ribcage was
cracked.  However, I could not tell anyone.  Grandmother would be
furious at my stupidity.  It hurt for a long long time

Moral of this story:  Your ethics are not everyone's ethics.

-+-

Near the end of Summer Camp, I got in a bit of a fight with one other
camper. He was larger than I, and very athletic.  Nevertheless, I had
him on the run.  He ran beside a cabin and turned around the cabin, I
followed.  As I turned, a smaller friend of his cut me good with the lid
from a tin can.  I was bleeding profusely from my palm.

I was forced to abandon the chase of both of them as I administered
first aid to myself.

Moral of this story:  Beware treachery.

-+-

The next year at Summer Camp went much better, I made several friends,
including the fellow I was chasing in the previous story.  However,
there was this one large and not terribly bright fellow who took a real
dislike to me.

He convinced two of his friends to grab me and hold me by the shoulders
as he walked forward to beat me.  When he was about 30" away, I bent at
the waist and kicked him with both feet squarely in the chest.  He left.
His friends left.  I was standing alone.

Moral of this story:  Meet violence with violence.

-+-


The Summer Camp authorities had not been aware of any of the previous
violence, but my luck could not last forever.  On Thursday, we were out
playing some game and a fellow I didn't really know kept throwing green
pinecones at me from point blank range.  I told him to stop and when he
did not, I grabbed him, put him in a headlock, and hit him repeatedly.

He ratted.  I got caught.  Mr. Grantham had us both beside the main camp
building.  He got the stories from both of us.  He asked us both if we
realized we had been in the wrong.  My antagonist quickly agreed that he
had been in the wrong.  I, on the other hand, stated that I was merely
defending myself when no camp  official had been present to do it for
me.  Mr. Grantham instructed the other fellow to leave.

Mr. Grantham came forward.  I prepared to hear his argument.  Instead,
he picked me up and threw me against the rough wall of the cabin.  Mr.
Grantham then asked me again whether I agreed that I had been in the
wrong. As the current sutuation had no logical connection to the
previous event, I stated that my position had not changed.

That went on for quite some time.  I had taken quite a few beatings by
the age of 12, and was quite stubborn.  Eventually, I realized that Mr.
Grantham was more stubborn than I, and I began to fear for my life.  I
thought he might never stop.  I panicked.  When next he asked if I had
changed my mind, I agreed that I had been in the wrong.

Mr. Grantham told me to get cleaned up and get ready for supper.  After
some time, I stood up and managed to make my way back to by sleeping
bag.  I lay there, hoping the world would leave me alone.  After much
too short a period of time, another camper came in, telling me I should
come to supper.  I had no intention nor desire to stand up, much less to
eat dinner with all of those people.

Several minutes later, another camper came in and told me that Mr.
Grantham said that I had better come down for Supper.  This changed
everything. I was filled again with terror.  Would be beat me for not
coming to Supper?  I was certain of it.  I got up and slowly made my way
down to the supper line.

I stood in line, unable to stop the tears rolling down my face.  My
spine was screaming in pain, it hurt just to stand up.  No one said a
word to me, nor asked a single question.  I went through the supper
line, sat down, stood up, threw away my food, and went back to bed.

To this day, I hate myself for giving in to Mr. Grantham.  If I could go
back and change it, I would.  I know that he would not have killed me.
As it is, he killed something inside of me.  I may have forgiven Mr.
Grantham for his actions that day, but I will never forgive myself.

Moral of this story:  Never give up, never give in.

-+-

When I was 16, there was this kid who lived in my neighborhood whom I
knew just a little bit.  He and I were hanging around one day, and he
took something I owned.  I realized it several days later and confronted
him about it.  He denied taking it, but his denial was weak and untrue.
I threatened him, and he continued denial.

He sent a knee towards my groin.  He missed by about two inches.  He
then jumped on his bicycle and attempted to flee.  I grabbed him by his
shoulders and threw him to the ground.  We wrestled for some time, and I
got him in a headlock.

I was not particularly upset, as I had not been hurt in the least.  I
was certain we could work things out, so I simply waited.  Every few
minutes, I would ask him if he was ready to get up yet.  He would
respond by thrashing around and attempting to escape my hold, and I
would tell him that if he mellowed out I would let him up.

After a time of this unfruitful activity, his older sister happened to
walk by.  While I had experience with older brothers, I had no
experience with older sisters.  She told me to let her brother up. I
explained that if I did, he would attack me.  He assisted greatly by
flailing around and attempting to hit me.  I explained that if she would
get his dad, I would release him to his father.  She left to get the
father.

Then I woke up.  Bleeding.  Unable to see clearly.  Nauseas.  Throwing
up. Covered in sticky red liquid.  Lying on the grass.  A diaper over my
face.  A man I did not recognize administering first aid to me.

My older sister took me to the hospital where the two sides of my nose
were stitched back together.  Eventually, reconstructive surgery brought
my face close to what it was like before the incident.

I found two fellows who witnessed the events that I do not recall, as
they were sitting on their porch across the street.  I do not know what
the sister told the father, but there was a grevious error.  Apparently,
the father ran all the way to where his son and I were resting and with
one suprise kick to my face with steel toed work boots ended the issue.
The fellow who had administered first aid to me, that was the father.

If it were not for the father and the diaper, I would have died, drowned
in my own blood.

If it had not been for the mercy I had show the son, I would have beaten
him fully before the sister of the father had ever entered the picture.

Moral of this story:  Show no mercy.

-+-

The previous events left me with a white cast on my nose.  Everywhere I
went, people would ask me how I got that cast.  I got so sick of telling
the story that I painted the cast red.  Down the middle, I game it a
wide yellow stripe.  On each side of the yellow strip, was a thin blue
stripe.  After tha, not a single person asked me about my nose.

Moral of this story:  Be strange enough, and people will leave you alone.

-+-

These are all lessons that I learned as a child.  You may argue with
them, but they are the lessons *I* learned.  This is what life taught
me, right and wrong is a separate issue.

I learned many more lessons as a child.  These are the ones that spring
to mind as I sit here writing.  Remember these stories.  Remember them
as you have children.  Take what I have learned and apply it to your
life.  Learn from the mistakes and the successes of others.  Learn and
live, life is too short and too important to waste worrying about the
things that do not really matter.

These stories do not represent the me of today.  I have grown and my
childhood is now little more than a distant memory.  I have corrected
the flaws that led me into most of these troubles.  I have learned from
my experiences, these and other as yet untold.

I hope you have enjoyed my tales, and I hope you have learned from them.


                                                           Voyager[TNO]


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