Playgrounds and Standing your Ground

Another one I started but didn't finish from Fall 2012

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One of my first memories was of a playground at a campground. I was young--not even in school yet--still wearing those scratchy polyester shorts and shirts that I hated, and I was at the playground alone. Before I tarnish the custodial expertise of my parents, first, it was the early 70s. Second, there is a chance that I had been there with my siblings, and they had left, or that I had somehow wandered there by myself.

I was playing on the playground--back when they had real playgrounds with separate apparatus--big metal slides with humps in the middle, banana seat swings, merry go rounds--the kind you pump to make go faster, funnel ball, tether ball, the bouncy pelican, jungle gyms, monkey bars, and teeter totters. Every new playground was like an amusement park, all 100% self-propelled, and most of them seemingly designed to break limbs. This particular playground was sheltered by tall trees, and it felt like a wooded wonderland, and I can still see the late afternoon rays coming through the leaves. There was one ride that was tricycles on a round track, resembling a carousel, except you made them go by pedaling.

I was running from toy to toy in utter bliss. I got on the tricycles and was pedaling away, when a group of "big kids" (probably age 8-10) approached. They walked up like they owned the place. I kept riding. The girl in the group didn't like me riding without acknowledging her, and she told me I had to get off. I ignored her and kept pedaling. As if on cue two of the boys pushed me off. I got up and got back on, and they threw me down again with more force, and I remember their words: "She said, 'Git!'"

"Git."

That was a scary ass word to me.  Lazy pronunciations of monosyllabic words has a certain meanness.  

The other boy added a more eloquent speech about my impending eviction:

"Scram."

Even scarier that "Git."

So I scrammed the git out of there.

It wasn't my first dealing with bullies. I spent my formative years at a parochial school, and getting beat up (and kissed without giving permission) evidently was all part of God's plan. There was something I was more scared of than bullies. I was scared of looking scared. I consider this a survival gene because I didn't contemplate it or learn it. I just felt it.

In my musings, I got up, kicked dirt at them and then slugged that bossy bitch with her brunette braids and freckles in the stomach, and yelled,

 "I ain't finished yet!" 

That would never happen. I would never utter an expletive like "ain't."

In real life, I think I left, tired of getting beat up. I probably cried or at least my lip trembled as I made my back to our campsite. Those were cool ass playground toys, and I couldn't play with them.

Kids are mean!