Learning Curve

It would be difficult if not impossible to discern which pain is worse: The one I felt as a seventh grader in the cafeteria at Centennial Junior High, or the one I feel now as the parent of a sixth grade boy wandering down many of the same paths. I have an extremely vivid picture in my mind of the layout of that cafeteria, and my place in it. I sat near the entrance, close to the main hallway, with my lunchbox and a sense of impending doom. The best I could hope was for a completely uneventful meal with little or no interaction with my fellow students. I never had a hot lunch, so I never had to brave the far corner, where the popular kids held court and abuse was handed out with reckless abandon. Most days I didn't bother throwing my trash away, preferring instead to avoid that one last chance to mingle, and then headed outside, if the weather allowed.
It wasn't until ninth grade that I found a group of kids with whom I could spend that hour. In this regard, my son has already surpassed me. He has found a few friends who wile away the time before their fifth period, eating their sandwiches and keeping an eye on their backpacks as the world of middle school swirls around them. Sadly, there have already been more than a few intrusions into that reverie, with insults and random bullying becoming all too regular interruptions into an otherwise peaceful school day. I was a short, round kid. My son is short and, like his father, wears glasses. Aside from outward appearances, we share a fierce interest in justice, the kind that is sorely lacking in middle school. I used to take the abuse from kids who were strangers to me, but felt comfortable enough making their punching bag. I told myself that they were the ones who were really suffering, because they were just too dumb to deal with people in any other way. But I still came home with bruises on my shoulder: "Two for flinching," they would enthuse, regardless of my reaction and then thump me two more times.
I never hit back, and I suppose it's a credit to my son that he has a better sense of self-preservation than his old man. He threw something back today, and got thumped as a result. My first reaction was to tell him to avoid the situation, and make it to P.E. without conflict. But in my mind I could feel the embers of rage that burned in my pre-teen mind. Why should these clowns get away with this? Won't somebody stand up to them? Why not me?
Two wrongs don't make a right. Use your words. Love your enemies, it'll drive them crazy. Fighting never solved anything. I thought of all the aphorisms that I had learned and heard them falling out of my mouth as I tried to make sense of my son's world. As an adult, I know that this is part of a reckoning. He will learn from this experience and become stronger. The good news is, he seems to be handling it a whole lot better than I am. I still have so much to learn.