I wish I had a different name. They should’ve taught me how your actions and name can dog you before I attended middle school. It was miserable time in my life, a time of homophobic slurs and Anti-Semitic torture. Everyone talks about these things as something dead, something that couldn’t possibly still exist amongst the children. I wish that were true for my sake. Unfortunately bias doesn’t care if you’re a southerner or a northerner like me. I look back to my time in Woodbury and wonder how I got through it intact. I was lost back then, a pudgy kid walking in no particular direction.

My time in the sixth grade was the start of my directionless walk. I had moved back with Mom and Dad into an old town house complex. Uniform colored clay mortar and wood houses. Looked like a place to retire rather than a place to live. I was trying to find a lot of things back then, a voice was certainly one of them. I didn’t want to move but I wasn’t allowed to talk back. A voice in the back of my head constantly pulled my attention to the fact that my parents sacrificed for me so now it was my turn. As our car pulled out from our old driveway I said nothing. I only thought of what I was truly leaving.

The first night in our new inoffensive house was one of silence. No one spoke; instead we watched the dog trying to find her feet on the foreign-carpeted floor in place of any real conversation. Shame will do that to you. I remember Dad’s quiet eyes and dropping brow, strength and sadness personified. He had failed and we all knew it. He couldn’t pay for the old place so we moved to the new place at the start of the New Year. Melancholy draped over an air of cynicism probably wasn’t the best way to enter the New Year but since when has the ball dropping ever stopped that. They celebrated, had some good food, and stayed up drunk on champagne. As always I was the buzz kill type 1 diabetic playing with his insulin pump. Scratching at the itchy I.V on my skin as insulin was fed through the tube. I actually found some comfort in that weirdly enough. It was an annoyance sure, but it was a good kind of annoyance. It was nice to know that it at least came with me to Woodbury.

Throughout the first couple of weeks I listened to both my parents talk about what a great little town Woodbury was. Mom thought it was a wholesome place to attend school, a country view where everyone would greet you with a loving smile as you walk into church. Dad wanted a little privacy. Our house was little more than a hole in the side of the street covered by a canopy of trees and bushes. To me that house was just that and I had no real drive to see the rest of Woodlake.

Regardless of what I wanted my parents found what they were looking for. Mom got her church and Dad got his escape in nature. He loved pulling me out on the porch every night to bask in the shadow of the trees. I remember him showing me Venus, Mars, and any other stars that were showing that night. He would tell me the stories behind each of the planets, how they got their names, and how he learned all these things from a fancy Columbia University textbook. Like any good son I would fake my astonishment just to please him, before going back inside and falling into my bed.

September fourth was the day I actually started walking. Dad said I waited long enough and it was time to get to school. Woodbury Middle School, unoriginal title aside I felt like an intrepid explorer discovering a new place for the first time. Walking on my chubby legs I wondered what awaited me.

School had already started by the time I walked in. Kids running about the hallways clutching their multi colored backpacks and dropping their faded textbooks on the scuffed linoleum floor. Clutching my own backpack I went to what looked like the head office.

Steel walls framing glass of criss crossing black lines greeted me as I stepped inside. A half dead looking woman sat behind the desk and looked at me with the coldest eyes. The last school I attended had a similar woman so I figured it was standard and passed it off as part of the big kid school experience.

“Can I help you?” she asked.

“Yes um, I think I came in late,” I said.

“You think? What's your name?”

“Jared Steinberg.”

A metal clang rang out through the still bustling hallways as she whipped her file cabinet open. Eventually she found her file and sent me away telling me I was just in time for homeroom.

I found homeroom and opened the door. Sharp eyes and weary smiles greeting me as I walked in. The homeroom itself was a science lab; clean beakers posing as entry level science malarkey lined the shelves and counter tops. Sitting at the front was the teacher.

“Ah you must be Jared,” he said. “Grab a seat over there, we just got started."

Sitting down I felt eyes on me. Like wolves three boys, one with short black hair, one beetle cut brown, and one ginger looked at me as if I was a pig to slaughter. The inner judge of mine spoke again.

“Don’t you dare run away,” it said. “Dad said to stay so you stay!”

The rest of the day I talked to no one, cause no one talked to me. I did get a couple glances at lunch though so I knew I was cool. It wasn’t until P.E that they started to speak. Getting changed in the locker rooms I looked around at all the fellow boys as the stripped down into their gym clothes. I was relieved actually. No one cared about being shirtless, I felt so grown up confident and smiling as I watched them all change ready to go out and play sports with the guys. The three smiling boys saw me, staring back at my goofy smile with disgust. Muttering amongst themselves for a moment the black haired boy was pushed out from the group, a look of glee plastered on his face.

“You gay?” the black haired boy called out.

The room froze. “What?” I asked.

“I’m just asking if you’re gay?” He replied.

I couldn’t respond. The way he asked so nonchalantly the utter plainness of his voice, he was scolding me. He was scolding me and I didn’t know what I did wrong.

Shoving my head to the side without a second thought he asked again.

“You checking me out?” he asked?

I said nothing.

“I’m just kidding man what's your name?” he asked.

I saw a genuine smile for the first time all day I shook his outstretched hand and introduced myself. I found it odd that he made a quick giggle after pulling back but I watched as his boys followed him out the lockers and somehow knew everything was all right. I pulled my shorts up and ran out to join them.

It was the end of the day and orientation so our coaches figured that it would be a good idea to allow everyone to choose which game to play. They led us out to the tennis court surrounded by an old chain link fence and asked all of us for suggestions. Once again I found myself staring at the three boys, raising their hands and calling out a game they called pickle.

They explained it as a sort of tennis dodge ball. Everyone would run from one side of the court to the other while the three boys try to hit you with high velocity tennis balls. If you got hit you were out, pretty simple. Everyone agreed of course as the coaches left to chat amongst themselves on the sidelines. I was awestruck by how much power these boys had. Everyone listened to them and I had the privilege of being their punch line just moments ago.

So the game began. Everyone ran from one side of the court to the other as the boys threw their tennis balls. One by one everyone fell, visible pulsating welts on their knees and arms. I called out to see if one of them was all right after taking a blow to the ear. I left the fence and the pain was instant. Ball after ball was thrown at me. My guttural grunts and squeaks drowned out by the incoherent laughter of the boys. Desperately I clung back to the fence and sure enough the balls stopped. I recovered in time to watch them pelt the other boy again.

“You’re hurting him,” I called out. “He’s out okay.”

A dead silence caught me as the kids surrounding me moved down a few inches. I knew why a second later. A tennis ball hit between my legs. All the kids laughing stopped any thought I had of crying; I already looked like an ass, I didn’t want to look worse. The balls kept coming, my shoulders, knees, head it was all fair game now.

None of it hurt though I could only feel the hot numbness in my groin mixed with the sharp pain I felt from the tip, anything else just felt insignificant to that. I kept banging on the side of the fence for what seemed like hours. Even as each of my fingers was hit again and again I tried to call out that I was still on home base. I tried to make them see I was safe; make them see I was a diabetic with delicate hardware and they still didn’t stop. One kid leaned in close enough for me to hear.

“You shouldn’t have said anything,” he said.

Eventually the onslaught ended and I was left to hobble back to the locker rooms and get changed for the bus ride home. I couldn’t move through. The pain in my balls had stopped long enough for the pain everywhere else to kick in. So I waited, waited for the hot numbness to go away and thanking God that the balls didn’t hit my insulin pump. God knows what would’ve happened if insulin leaked everywhere along with my pride. Everyone passed me, muttering things that to this day I wish I could remember. The only ones that stuck out were things like “dumbass” or “faggot” which then I thought was big kid talk so I took it as par for the course.

At last the pain subsided and I got up, wondering if the coaches even saw me after the dismissal bell rang. I was able to catch up with everyone else as we all walked back to the gym. Everyone entered the gym through a large door near an even larger green dumpster, the three boys were leaning against that dumpster. They came up to me offering apologies and halfhearted “just kiddings.” I pushed passed them eager to speak my mind as I was raised to do.

A few minutes later I walked out of the bathroom, they were still waiting. It was technically after class now so only a few other boys stayed in the lockers to get dressed. I figured this was a good an audience as any so I spoke my mind. I walked up to the black haired boy and told him everything. How it hurt to pee, how humiliated I was, how he had no right to hurt that boy. I was a hero, a freedom fighter standing up to a bully. Yeah I knew what one was, I wasn’t that ignorant and I was yelling as loud as I could just like my Dad taught me.

I built a fantasy in my mind of how the other boys would respect me, how I would get the girl, and how I would finally make some friends. I wish I were right back then. They came up from behind slipping boxers over my head and pulling me to the ground. My back hit the cement floor and so did they. Punching, shoving, and kicking anything they could reach. After the wind was knocked out of me for the fifth time they moved on to my groin. I couldn’t see who but his heel dug deep. When the shorts were finally lifted I lay there stunned. I couldn’t believe it. No one came to help; no one looked at me as a hero.

“Faggot,” the beetle cut boy spat.

“You tell anyone about this we’ll kill you,” the black haired boy said.

They left after that. Left me to gather my things and catch the bus. Sitting there as the bus rocked back and forth I could still feel every single hit. Every bruise every welt, every bleeding cut. I could hear my little judge bellowing in my head.

“You don’t look for trouble Jared,” It said. “You’re a good son so don’t tell your parents.”

And so I didn’t. Days went by all interchangeable and they never stopped. I spoke out and the same three boys would kick me into the dirt. They found new ways or more people to kick the crap out of me. Shoving my hands into bricks. Tossing my backpack over my head exposing my stomach as I tried to catch it, having the girl friends kiss me as they held me by the scruff of my neck. That last one is confusing I know but they wanted to prove I was gay some how and me turning my head away from the assault was all the proof they needed. Being gay was the primary no-no of young boys isn’t it? I wasn’t but because I didn’t grow up with them form the first grade I was gay, and girls kissing me was the worst torture they could come up with.

Best of all though was when it was all about my name. My fucking Jewish name, Jared Israel Steinberg. They would ask if being Jewish meant things. If it meant I was circumcised and had a small dick, if it meant that my nose would keep growing, or if being Jewish meant I masturbated with cut open sacks of pennies. I would always ask them if being Christian had any side affects as well. I mostly stuck to catholic priest jokes. Everyday I would do this, everyday I would be told that they were protestant, and everyday I was given a few extra kicks to the groin.

It was clear to them that I was a talker, telling on them multiple times. After the tenth “maybe they want to be your friend” argument from my principle I took matters into my own hands. I tried paying for protection and I got in trouble. I tried to reason with them; I got the crap beaten out of me. I tried to tell my parents but the little judge in my head silenced me.

“We’ll fucking kill you if you say anything,” they would say.

I believed them. I was afraid and powerless. I couldn’t show anyone my bruises, they always hit me in places I could cover up, never the face. The worst part is I knew karate and I was still scared to hit back. I could never bring myself to fight back even though I knew it would end it. I didn’t want to die.

I remember my hospital visit half way through the year. I had told Mom I fell on to a rusty nail as the puncture wound was sewn up. I was lying obviously. That particular day began like any other. Pushed up against the brick wall of the schoolyard freshly beaten and ready for this week’s new batch of insults. That day it was all about Nazi jokes. Gripped by the lapels of my shirt I listened to them quote Hitler and watched them hail like an SS officer. The Holocaust jokes came next, asking me if I had any ancestors that died and if I knew any Nazi names. I pushed away I remember that but the sharp feeling of metal tearing through my bone is the only other thing I can recall. I wish I could tell you why I fell, if I was pushed or if I was the one that did the pushing but I can’t remember, I don’t want to remember. The nail punctured me and the stitches were put in place after a rather cold reception from the nurse’s office.

And so I kept up my lie. I left the emergency room with five stitches in my knee, and a pamphlet on tetanus. Mom asked me how the rest of my day despite this little mishap.

“Good,” I told her.

That Friday the ginger boy knocked on my door.

“Hey you wanna come with us,” he said. “We’re going to go down to the townhouse dump. You wanna come?”

I said no and closed the door. He wanted to make sure I didn’t tell but what else he wanted I still don’t know. It was a well documented rumor that he was on drugs, which for an eleven year meant he was smoking weed. All I remember is his bent elbow though. Constantly swaying back and forth as he talked in that smooth fragmented voice. He wanted me to drugs with him, maybe that was his way of apologizing. At the time though I saw him as a serial killer, a person who knew where I lived and knew how to find me. I though could run away. I remember thinking that maybe would be safe in Canada or Mexico. At that point I needed to choose which direction to run, north or south?

“Who was that?” Mom asked me?

“I don’t know,” I told her.

She took a quick look out the window to see the red haired boy walk away. She looked confused. No one really visited me so she wanted to see if a sort of magical friend had emerged from the bushes to play with her son.

“I don’t like how he’s moving,” she said. “Probably on something.”

“Probably,” I replied.“You told him no? Good job kiddo.”

I didn’t answer her that time. I tried to hide my own shaking hands from her. I refused to tell her. She loves me I know and I love her as much as any son would but this wasn’t going to be her problem. She never was good at leaving me alone though.

“I’m going to start dinner,” she said. “What do you want?”

“Chicken cutlet,” I said.

“You just had that last…”

“I said chicken cutlet!”

“Jared!”

“I’m sorry… I’m sorry.”

I ran out of the kitchen and said nothing to Mom for the rest of the night. After dinner I remember sitting out on the porch looking up at the sky. At this point I was wasting time until I had to go to bed. Tomorrow I knew would be the same thing so I remember enjoying my nights as much as I could, trying to answer the questions I would always ask myself? What will they do tomorrow? Should I kiss their girlfriends back to get back at them? Am I talking to myself again? That was the only question I could answer.

“Hey Jare,” I heard Dad’s voice behind me.

Stepping on to the porch he held out his arm, bringing me into the soft embrace of his potbelly. I filched at first but I knew this one wouldn’t hurt… well except when he squeezed.

“You okay,” he asked.

“I’m fine,” I answered.

“Okay, okay didn’t want to bug you.”

Dad looked up.

“Oh wow! Jared look,” he said. “The stars are out in full tonight.”

Raising his hand up he pointed to a bright blue star.

“You see that big bright star right there?” he asked. “That’s the North Star.

“I know Dad,” I said. “You’ve told me.”

“What's so special about it then?” He asked.

“Slaves wanted to be free so they walked up north following the star,” I told him.

“Yeah, but what else?”

“Dad I… I’m kinda tired right now so.”

“Oh... okay, you do look pretty beat. Maybe some other time when your not as tired yeah?”

I didn’t answer him. Dad didn’t wait for an answer, walking back inside all the while mumbling his apology for disturbing me. I wanted to stop him and say I wasn’t trying to be rude but I didn’t feel like getting up. My feet were nailed to the rough-cut wooden floorboards and any pretense of bedtime was thrown at the window with a sickening crash. I kept looking up at that star, I wondered if I could run away like the slaves.

It was my first time I ever made a list of all the things I would need to pack. What it would it be like I thought if I started walking. We had already learned to follow the drinking gourd in music class so why couldn’t I do that? While the desire was there the will was not so I stayed in Woodbury Connecticut.

The year went by and my desire to run grew with each new bruise. Until my sophomore year of high school the bullying continued and I wanted to walk away, so many times.

Walking away from your troubles to somewhere better always seems like a good idea at the time. Dad still does sometimes. Always throwing his bags in the car before ridding off into the night.

I came close. All those hours spent packing up, stopping half way through, and curling up in bed to drift off to sleep. Why I didn’t run away? Lying awake trying to catch one last glimpse of that beautiful star. The blinds were always drawn though, Mom made sure of that. I couldn’t see it when it was time for bed, but I didn’t need to. This backwoods town house was its home just as much as mine.

It’s been nine years now but I think I get it. I didn’t need to run away. During the day I was a toy, a plaything. The nights though, they were mine. Those nights when I could look north and think about what could be out there were mine. No matter what else happened I didn’t need to follow the star to see it. So from middle school to high school I went to sleep in my own bed in my own house.

Sophomore year of high school was when they pushed me up against another wall. Expecting the usual beating I got pelted with tampons instead. This was a new tactic for them so they wanted to see if it really hurt or not. It definitely left welts so I guess they accomplished their task.

One of them came over, looked down at me, and I hit him in the stomach as hard as I could. Gritting my teeth I could feel my fist tearing through what I assume was his diaphragm, pushing him down on the ground while I removed his ability to vocalize any more “expertly” worded insults. He wheezed and coughed while he motioned for the others to get me, no one did.

I wanted to gloat, to sing my praises for overthrowing the great tyrant. He wasn’t a tyrant though. He was a kid, a fucked up little doofus of a kid. I walked away. They attacked me, I attacked back, and I was walking away with only the rest of the boy’s stunned faces following me.

Next class had begun already so I knew I would be late. I walked to the nurse’s office to see if I could con her out of a late pass. I did and then I walked to class. Once that was done I walked to the bus and went home.

I didn’t run once that day; I also never talked to our principle again or tell my parents what happened until a few months ago. I look back on my time in Woodbury Connecticut and at least up till my sophomore year I only remember two things. I remember a punch and I remember phone message. I remember knocking a kid down and coming home to make a pone call. It’s too bad I got the answering machine.

“You’ve reached Gerry Steinberg Venture Resources,” Dad’s voice answered. “At the sound of the tone please leave your name phone number and a complete message and I look forward to retuning your call. Thank you.”

“Hey dad,” I began. “Its me Jared. Um just a quick thought, can we go star gazing tonight? I know it sounds cheesy and I know it’s been a while. God last time we did it was in middle school. But I think I’ll be awake tonight, so lets do it. Give me a call back okay.”

I hung up and went to go take the dog out. When I came back Dad had called and left a voicemail.

I played it after getting the dog some water. “Hey Jared its Dad. Really quick, I’m technically still in a meeting. I’m kind of annoyed you called me to be honest; I told you I would be here this afternoon. I’m on break though… so anyway yeah I’d love to, assuming the stars are out okay? Oh, I gotta go, I’ll see you tonight Jared.”

True to his word Dad took me out on the porch that night and we looked at the sky. He was rambling of course, listing off more random astrology facts as we sat there. Hiding my welts under a long sleeved shirt I actually listened to him.

© 2014 Jared "I.J" Steinberg. All Rights Reserved.

#nonfiction