The first bully that attacked me was at a Catholic grade school during recess. For no reason, the fire-plug shaped, freckle-faced, red haired six-year old decided to hit me in the face and knock me down. Then he was getting ready to kick me when a hero stepped forward looking like a young, light haired six-year old Tom Cruise and stopped him. I haven’t forgotten the hero’s first name. It was James. I’ve liked anyone named James ever since.
The next incident was in fifth grade. I had a coin of some kind my grandmother gave me that was dated from the 19th century. I brought it to school to show to friends, and the bully saw it and wanted it. When I refused to hand it over, he started to move forward to take it from me.
I closed my eyes and morphed into a windmill with flying fists. I’d already read a comic book about Cervantes‘ Don Quixote, and I was the windmill but the bully was no Don Quixote. The bully walked into my fist, and I regret that didn’t see it give him a bloody nose. He left me alone after that, and I kept the coin.
