Without

Prompt: Write a story of 1000 words or less about what this song means to you.

The old adage “A moving target is harder to hit” was never truer than describing me as a young boy. My Dad was in the Air Force; we moved a lot when I was growing up. I never really fit in … anywhere.

Let’s see: My first two years of school were in St. John Berchman Catholic School in San Antonio, Texas, complete with sadistic nuns. The very thought of safety in numbers drove me to a group of like-persecuted young boys. Unfortunately, one of those boys instigated more trouble than we avoided.

I learned two things early on. Michael was a bully. Bullies exist everywhere. For some reason known only to Michael, I was fair game.

My friend, David, and I often reaped the punishments meted out for this infraction or that. The art of inflicting maximum pain without raising a welt was perfected by Sister Mary Francis. Her weapon of torture—a word I didn’t even know back then—was a 12-inch wooden ruler. David and I seemed to be particular favorites for the sister’s ruler.

I often wondered why a school that taught that God loves us, had someone like Sister Mary Francis driving that point home. I decided then that I didn’t fit in.

Soon, we moved again. And again. And again! I spent the third grade in Mississippi, Maine and Michigan. I was never in one place long enough to make friends. But I sure found the bullies. Or rather, they found me. When I got to Michigan, I was determined to remain unnoticed.

But just the fact that I was new, got me noticed. Add that to the fact that I already knew well the subjects they were teaching in the latter part of the third grade, and I stood out. I would finish my assignments quickly and was assigned some task to help the teacher. I learned what a “teacher’s pet” was. It was not the plum assignment I thought it was; it put a target on my back.

Despite the bullies I encountered during these early years, I did make some great friends. I guess looking back, I did more than survive. While I avoided bullies, I tended to do things that interested me, stuff that I wanted to do. I found others willing to go with me. And some times I went by myself.

I learned doing things by myself could be fun.

Later, after moving back to Maine, I discovered the clique system in high school was a hard wall to climb.

But, freshman year showed me two things that taught me a lot about myself. I’d always enjoyed running. Joining the Cross Country team, I spent many miles running alone with my thoughts. That opened my mind to topics I’d never considered before. Not much to do when running but think about … uh, anything except how tired you are at the five-mile mark of an eight-mile run. I also learned which roads to avoid—nothing spikes one’s adrenalin faster than being chased by a dog.

And I drew Mr. Arnold as freshman English teacher. To say Mr. Arnold hated English grammar was like my 105-lb body wrestling a 200-lb football defensive end and pinning him in ten seconds. To quote Vizinni in The Princess Bride, “Inconceivable!” Well, thanks to a sadistic gym teacher, the wrestling part actually happened—the pinning did not.

His initial act in our first class meeting was to fling his copy of our English grammar book over our heads, crashing into the back wall and dropping on the ground like thunder.

In addition to his teaching duties, Mr. Arnold was the Debate coach and directed the school plays. He also introduced me to creative writing. His fiery German temper ignited a love for writing, a love that has taken me down paths I never thought possible. No matter what I’ve done through the years or where I’ve gone, the solitary act of writing has provided meaning at times when none could be found.

Perhaps not, strictly speaking, a road less traveled in terms of humanity, but without writing, my life would be without.

Word Count: 690 words