Hiccup: When it Comes to Erma, Bullies Need Not Apply

I can still feel the crunch of my face against the cold, hard metal.  The entire row of school lockers would shift forward with my body, firmly pressed against them, and my shoulders would burn in an instant, piercing pain.  Sometimes my hair would be pulled; other times the books I held would be knocked from my hands.  But regardless of the attack, there were always hateful words.  It was seventh grade.  Like the chimes in a grandfather clock, they would show up.  I knew they would come.  Sometimes I would glance down the hall in anticipation; sometimes I would hold my head down, waiting, waiting for the inevitable.  Most of my classmates wouldn't even acknowledge what was happening.  I was a lone soldier in this battle--lacking even the simplest knowledge of defensive strategy.

Then came Erma.  Big, beautiful Erma.  At the age of 13, she seemed at least six feet tall.  With broad shoulders, a silky yet brawny voice, and a smile that easily lit up the solar system, Erma was my beacon of light in the darkness.  Erma and I attended grade school together.  Parsons Elementary was a typical suburban-style school, filled mostly with children from middle to upper middle income levels.  Erma was one of a few black girls who attended Parsons.  She always laughed at my jokes and loved my coveted pencil box, filled with smelly erasers, and freshly sharpened pencils.   I grew to treasure her friendship, and in return, she always stuck up for me.  Even though I knew we came from different neighborhoods, from different sides of the city, there was something that always drew me close to her.  As a child, I knew I didn’t fit the typical mold.  I can remember being different from a very young age.  Maybe that was what drew me to Erma.  She was one of a few minorities in my primarily all-white primary school.  I, on the other hand, was on a road to becoming who God had intended me to be.  I just didn’t know it back then.

With a crash, my head would bang into the vented upper locker.  I could feel my hip pressed against the hard, bulky combination lock.  My books, scattered all about, would end up with torn binding and my weeks’ worth of homework would be spewed on the floor surrounding the hallway.  The books were of particular concern, because I knew I wouldn't be able to explain to my parents why they had been damaged.  “You’re such a faggot!” They would scream. High pitched laughter and intimidating cackles would echo in the hallways.  I was hopeless.  I was alone.  And no one cared.

Then, with the swiftness of a comic book super hero, Erma appeared!  As I attempted to gain my balance and push myself up, the double doors adjacent to my locker would fly open in thunderous climax.  The morning’s sun rays would blind my eyes as I looked in the direction of the doors, feeling the swoosh of air as the doors slammed against the polished ceramic tile walls.  There she would stand-- hands on her hips with eyes piercing my avengers: “YOU DON’T MESS WITH MY PEOPLE!” She would scream.  “IF I HEAR EVEN A PEEP OUT OF YOU, I’M GONNA KICK YOUR ASS!”  Erma was blessed with a natural method of motivation.  And motivate she did!  The bullies would scamper out of the hallway faster than I had the opportunity to fully stand up.  Sometimes one of them would slip and fall on the shiny, waxed floor tiles.  Even then, I had a sense of empathy for them.  Erma’s face would quickly go from harsh to light as she would beam at me, and say, “You let me know if they say or do anything and I’ll take care of them for you.”  Erma would then bend down and pick up each of my wrinkled, foot-imprinted homework assignments, smoothing each one out tenderly, and shoot me a smile that warmed my heart with relief and gratitude. 

Erma never forgot me.  I never forgot her.  From grade school to middle school, I always could count on her to defend and protect me.  I felt strong in the presence of Erma.  Big, beautiful Erma.