The year was 1966, and it was the beginning of the new school year at Public School 79 in Manhattan. I transferred to P.S. 79 the previous year to be part of a program called the Intelligent and Gifted Children program (IGC). P.S. 79 was the site for a program that gathered children who did exceptionally well in school and, as they saw it, would benefit from a rigorous and challenging academic environment. The New York City Board of Education recruited my classmates from East and West Harlem. I grew up in East Harlem, and even though the school was only one mile away from home, it seemed like I was crossing state lines to get there. The school was located right across the street from Mount Morris Park, now Marcus Garvey Park, the unofficial dividing line between East and West Harlem. People who grew up and lived in Harlem grow up knowing that there are social and cultural differences between the Eastside and Westside of Harlem.
My classmates and I were the school’s Nerds, except we were called brainiacs in those days. Despite that, certain things about our class defied the stereotype of a class full of eggheads. One of my best friends, Robert, became an international basketball star; Richard, whose comedic wit and timing rivaled Richard Pryor’s, some of our’ snap sessions” were epic. Then there was Alice, who I had crushed on since the first time I saw her. She reminded me of the actress Judy Pace, Google her, and you’ll understand why I was so starstruck by her beauty.
Unlike so many depictions of White kids in popular culture, we did not have to carry the weight of being Nerds as if it was some “scarlet letter.” Back on our blocks, we were just Robert, Richard, Alice, and Calvin hanging out with our friends, enjoying our families, friends, and childhoods in our communities.
Our schools across the street from Junior High School 120 (Cooper) and many children from P.S. 79 would later attend JHS 120. The overwhelming majority of Cooper students were young people working hard and striving to graduate to pursue their dreams. At the same time, a smaller group of students majored in terror and chaos. During our lunchtime recess, these students would cross the street to our schoolyard and target us for harassment and abuse. It was such a regular occurrence that there was always a pall every lunchtime and concern about being targeted. Fortunately, no one in our class was bullied or harassed the first year and a half. That was about to change.
On this day, our class had just finished a spirited kickball game, and the bell rang for us to line up in our designated class spaces for the afternoon session. Class formations consisted of two lines, one for boys and the second for girls. Each line would start with the shortest student and end with the tallest. At that time, I was 5 feet 10 inches and had the (dis)honor of being the tallest student. While we stood there waiting for our teacher, Miss Bogner, I turned around because I sensed someone approaching us from behind. I looked long enough to realize it was Bullet. I turned my attention towards the front, hoping he would just pass through, but no such luck. Bullet was the leader of a group of students that terrorized our schoolyards during recess.
As I stood there as still as a soldier at attention, a sound reverberated through the schoolyard. It was the sound of a hand smacking against my skin. When I think about it now, it still stings. The hand belonged to Bullet, and the skin was the back of my nearly bald head; afros were not a thing yet. I turned my head towards Bullet and sheepishly asked him, please don’t slap me in my head anymore. Bullet told me, “Shut the F___ Up!” My request seemed to amuse him, and shortly after turning my attention back to the front, I felt another smack. Naively, I repeated my requests to avoid the third smack, but it was to no avail.
My reaction after the third smack was what you could say was totally out of character. I shouted in frustration almost simultaneously and balled my right hand, delivering a right cross that landed flush on his jaw. Bullet dropped to the ground, and my classmates recounted that I sounded almost apologetic after cold cocking him. They said I stood over him, repeatedly saying, I asked you not to smack me anymore. I know what a nerdish thing to say.
I remember a hush in the schoolyard and my friend Robert, the next tallest kid in my class, telling me I knocked “Bullet’s” tooth out. The moment resembled the scene in the Wizard of oz when the Wicked Witch of the West melted. For me, this was not a time for chest-beating. I was more concerned about the penalty for being in a fight. Luckily the teachers did not come out to retrieve their classes until things had settled down. As I would find out later, no one ratted me out because other students appreciated that I did, reluctantly, what many of them wanted to do.
For the next couple of weeks, there was a notable decline in the level of harassment that we received from the Junior High School 120 “Hit Crew.” I don’t know how much the confrontation had to do with that, but there were two other outcomes that I would say were a result of that day. The first was other schoolmates stopped looking at us as aliens, and there was more interaction between the other kids and us. The second was that Bullet became one of our class’s biggest allies. On several occasions, he came to our rescue to fend off threats and help us navigate what could sometimes be very mean streets. The last I heard about him, he survived those mean streets and entered the military.
Bullying remains a serious problem for children, and new technology has expanded the reach and impact of bullies. Nothing guarantees success, but it will take a collaborative effort that includes students to push back on its worst outcomes. Check out https://www.stopbullying.gov/
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