Posts Tagged ‘bullies’

gillespieBend over and grab your knees! No, this is not a sex post… you’ll have to go to my wife’s blog for that. This is about why I think it’s wrong for school administrators to paddle children.

Before you say it, yes, I know that paddling is no longer allowed in schools here in America… at least that’s my understanding. But the subject was brought up recently on a Facebook forum for my old neighborhood school. Apparently, one former student and local BMX icon was waxing nostalgic, praising a former teacher’s rather generous use of the paddle. In short, this person believed that the teacher’s paddling taught children “respect,” and the elementary school’s use of corporal punishment made us all better people.

With all due respect to Mayfair’s king of bunnyhops and ramp riding, I call bullshit on his so-called theories.

Like him, I, too, went to that school and I don’t feel I benefited from its paddling policy at all. In its wisdom, the administration used the worst reasons and most flimsy of pretexts to justify doling out this form of punishment. And if you didn’t show the proper amount of remorse – i.e., not breaking down into a crumbling crybaby – they felt you didn’t “learn your lesson” and would paddle you again… harder. And if the first one didn’t make you break out into tears, the second was guaranteed to elicit the desired reaction. It was the stuff of bullies, really.

As discussion of Gillespie Elementary’s “paddling policy” continued, former students recalled the various reasons they took a few from that dreaded piece of wooden enforcement. Walking on the grass instead of the sidewalk, sliding on the ice ponds the formed just outside the bus stop, and in my case, “bouncing down the hall like a jackrabbit,” according to one grumpy, undersexed, overweight, and perpetually unfulfilled teacher.

Looking back on it, all being paddled ever taught me was that adults could be as capricious and cruel as the kids. Being adults with the power to paddle just made them more dangerous. Thing is, I didn’t need to endure that plank crashing into my backside to learn that lesson; both my parents were teachers, and I learned early on that the limits of their patience for childish nonsense wore rather thin indeed.

It wasn’t until I became a parent, myself, that I realized the truly insidious nature of swatting children.

It was many years ago when I became a parent in my 20s. When it came to raising my child, the only “manual” I had to go by was that of parents and the other adults who’d shaped my life to that point. My daughter’s mother and I were having a devil of a time keeping our child from climbing the pantry, which put her at risk for both falling and pulling the large wooden structure filled with cans and jars down on her.

After a week of saying “no” and taking her down from the pantry, we were both at the ends of our respective ropes. Long story short, I gave our daughter two clapping swats on her bottom the next time I caught her climbing the pantry and she promptly burst into tears. It was then that I realized who paddling was truly for: the parent.

The reason parents spank their children is to make themselves feel better. The temporary release of anger in a tangible way upon the one who’s annoying you gives the parent a momentary sense of power and control, which feels good… for a moment. This delusion is shattered in the split-second your child looks at you just prior to the cascade of tears that are sure to follow.

I recognized the look in my daughter’s eyes in that moment; it was a look of shock, anger, and above all, the feelings of betrayal that occur when someone who tells you they love you more than life itself turns around and hurts you. I remember being so distraught over what I had done that I cried into my then-wife’s shoulder for quite some time, vowing never to swat our daughter again. It never did take away the desire to do so in the heat of the moment, however, and I believe that’s the vicious cycle that every child who was paddled strives to break when they grow up and become parents, themselves.

As to the effects of paddling at Gillespie Elementary, I highly doubt the practice made us better citizens of the world. Likely, it only reinforced what many kids who grew up in that little redneck, shoprat neighborhood of mine were already learning at home: that might makes right. Is it any wonder, then, that there was so much bullying at the school back then?

About J.P. Ribner
J.P. Ribner is the author of Viking fantasy adventure series “The Berserker’s Saga.” Currently, the saga features two novels – “Legacy of the Bear” and “Prophecy of the Bear.” For more about his written work, check out his website.

One of my former bullies has died. There’s no other way to say it.

Remember Little Italy? He was one of the stars of my post on Catholic school bullies. Now, at the age of 43, he’s gone. I found out about his passing on Facebook; I also discovered that his viewing was a mere five or six miles from my office. Despite the convenience and slight desire to make my appearance, I decided not to go pay my respects.

Funerals are for the living. These functions give friends and family a last chance to say “goodbye” and perhaps gain some closure for their loss. I’m sure this was especially the case for the death of someone so relatively young. Given that, what business would I have going there? Having written about Little Italy in a less-than-flattering light, there’s no comfort I could or would want to provide his family.

I also didn’t go as a matter of integrity. Attending a viewing and faking my way through it for a guy I hardly knew and never liked would be a violation of my authentic self. I’m not going to refuse to turn a sinner into a saint just because they’ve died; this level has sheer phoniness always disgusted me and is simply not in my skill-set.

So Little Italy is gone and with him the explanation for why he wanted to do me grievous bodily harm on that sunny fall day in 1986. In the end, I can only guess that in his twisted state of mind, he saw an outsider threatening his friends and the opportunity to gain some instant street cred. Since most high-school bullying is based around reputation and social standing. I’m thinking this is the likely scenario.

So a guy who wanted to smash my face in so he could look good in front of his friends is now dead. That’s it… There’s no other way to say it.

Narcissistic Personality Disorder, Borderline Personality Disorder, Histrionic Personality Disorder… there are so many fucked up people out there and diagnosing them is typically a matter for the experts. That said, after dealing with one sociopath, a couple narcissists, and former lover with BPD, I’ve noticed certain patterns began to emerge between all of them. They’re what I call the Secondary Traits of the Personality Disordered (or PD for short).

Below you’ll find a list an explanation of what I consider to be the Secondary Traits of the PD. I’ve shared them here in hopes of helping you determine whether that charming yet difficult person in your life is just a garden variety asshole or someone harboring a deeper, much darker secret. If the person you know displays two or more of these traits, chances are you’re dealing with someone with a personality disorder or PD for short. Read on…

Assumption of Authority
PDs by their very nature are authoritarian people and much has already been written on this. What I’ll focus upon is something I call “Assumption of Authority.” Simply put, the personality disordered tend to automatically assume that they are the authority in your friendship/relationship/business arrangement with them. In their minds, the matter has already been decided – if you’re going to have a relationship with them, it’s going to be by their rules because according to them, that’s just the way it is.

Because of the damage done to them in the past, these people are fanatical in their belief that they must remain in control of everyone and everything in their lives; it’s the only way to think they can prevent themselves from being hurt.

Assertion of Authority
Once authority in their relationships is assumed, it must be asserted, hence the second of the PD’s secondary traits. It’s not enough that they believe they’re in control, it’s of primary importance to them that you know and recognize that they are in control. And the way that they assert their authority typically follows a rather insidious pattern that starts out with small statements and gestures – you need to do this, don’t do that – early in the game. Sadly, many people don’t understand these early warning signs.

All too often, the other person in the relationship often laughs off or explains away the PD’s Assertions of Authority. Ask yourself if this sounds familiar: “Oh, he didn’t mean it that way.” Or this: “You don’t know him/her like I do.” If not put in check, the PD becomes emboldened and quickly escalates his/her assertions of authority until they are too egregious to ignore, such as demanding people change their lifestyles, relationships, and beliefs to suit the PD. Having not put the PD in check during the early stages of assertion, the other person often finds it difficult to reason with the PD or escape the relationships once his/her Assertions are at full blast.

Social/Moral Blind Spot
Most of us operate under the assumption that it’s generally good to be polite to people we meet in our day-to-day lives in hopes being treated in a similar fashion. It’s a basic social contract of sorts that’s meant to prevent our world from becoming a chaotic free-for-all of rape, robbery, violence, and murder. Because of their Social/Moral Blind Spot, the personality-disordered have no concept of this unspoken agreement between people in a polite and civilized society. Instead, the PD believes that he/she is owed civil conduct from others while simultaneously not being constrained by the expectations of society themselves.

The Social/Moral Blind Spot is likely an extension of the PD’s Assumption/Assertion of Authority complexes, as the PD will often treat others harshly and with no regard to the consequences of this behavior. Worse yet, all efforts to discuss this behavior with them will fail due to the PD’s stubborn insistence that he/she is entitled and even obligated to behave this way for their own protection and advancement of their interests, etc.

Singularity of Boundaries
To the personality-disordered, their personal boundaries are sacrosanct and they will guard them with a vehemence that’s downright violent. In layman’s terms, you can’t ask about their lives, touch any of their belongings, accidentally brush up against them, or do anything else that they interpret as an intrusion into their personal space. Even a simple question such as, “Did you go to the gas station today?” could be considered an infringement and cause them to fly into a rage.

The biggest problem with this outlook is that it’s highly singular, meaning that the only boundaries that the PD respects and/or recognizes are their own. And as jealously as he/she will guard against those who trespass against them, they will equally trample over the boundaries, rights, and privacy of anyone unfortunate enough to be in their lives. Reading other people’s mail, listening to their phone calls, and searching through – and using – their personal belongings are all fair game to the PD.

Force Majeure
The French term meaning “superior force,” Force Majeure is the best way to describe how the PD goes about irrationally imposing his/her will onto others. If there’s one thing all these secondary traits have in common, it’s the sense of grandiosity that accompanies and fuels them. Doing onto others while simultaneously expecting them to treat you with kid gloves is absolutely unrealistic and perhaps, deep down inside, the PD realizes this. Sooner or later, friends/loved ones/business associates will begin to question the unrealistically selfish nature of the PD’s expectations and to the PD, this comes across as extremely confrontational.

The only possible way for the PD to maintain the irrational inequalities of their expectations is to enforce them with violence or the threat of violence. In personal relationships/friendships, this can often mean physical violence. i.e. Force Majeure or the greater force. The PD’s basic assertion is that because they believe themselves to be physically superior to their victims, this is enough for their victims to comply with the PD’s demands; right or wrong is of no consequence. In the case of business relationships, the PD’s expectations are often enforced via implied or threatened termination of employment/contract/business relationship, which is still considered Force Majeure.

In Conclusion…
As previously stated, there are several types of personality disorders, each with their own unique set of traits and ways in which these traits manifest themselves. To further complicate matters, many of these traits overlap each other, adding more confusion to exactly what might be afflicting your friend/family member/spouse/partner/etc. Further, while I’ve had experience with people I’ve suspected of having personality disorders, I’m by no means a licensed expert. If the secondary traits I’ve listed above describe someone you’re currently involved with, seek professional help and plan a safe and effective exit strategy.

One thing I can tell you – and this will be backed up by professionals in the field – the personality disordered person in your life WILL NOT change and WILL NOT get better. In fact, things will continue to get worse. I urge anyone currently enmeshed with a PD to seek the help they need as soon as possible.

Stay safe, good people.

About J.P. Ribner
J.P. Ribner is the author of Viking fantasy adventure series “The Berserker’s Saga.” Currently, the saga features two novels – “Legacy of the Bear” and “Prophecy of the Bear.” For more about his written work, check out his website.

J.P. Ribner Used to be in a Punk Rock Band

When I used to play live music, I got A LOT of requests… but I would keep playing, anyway. (Ba-doom-tiss!) Here’s a new song about a phenomenon I’ve recently identified and it goes out to my good friend in Indiana. (You know who you are!)

Hognose Snake

Lyrics by J.P. Ribner

Hognose Snake! Hognose Snake!
Puffed up like a cobra, but ya know he’s a fake
You have to give more than you take
From that dirty rotten, no good, low-down, yellow-bellied snake

Chased down the dark path,
I turned and ran away
Fuel the fire in my ears a’burnin’
The liberties taken that day

Hognose Snake! Hognose Snake!
Puffed up like a cobra, but ya know he’s a fake
You have to give more than ya take
From that dirty rotten, no good, low-down, yellow-bellied snake

Spirit of Red Wolf came to me in a dream
Said that the snake ain’t all that he seems
You gotta give way more than you take
From that dirty rotten, no good, low-down, yellow-bellied snake

Apologies were accepted
Set the sword down in the glade
It’s been a score, maybe a few more
It’s time to reclaim that blade

Hognose Snake! Hognose Snake!
Puffed up like a cobra, but ya know he’s a fake
You have to give more than ya take
From that dirty rotten, no good, lowdown…
Hognose Snake! Hognose Snake!
Puffed up like a cobra, but ya know he’s a fake
You have to give more than ya take
From that dirty rotten, no good, low-down, yellow-bellied snake


It was like a scene out of Office Space with a more twisted logic. The new employee sauntered over to my cubicle to inform me that I would be responsible for five sales per week in another department. The conniving little prick didn’t care that I already was juggling my department and another one that was handed to me after the former manager quit. He also didn’t give two shits that I hadn’t had a raise in two years. Nope! All he cared about was being a hero in front of the boss at my expense. To add insult to injury, he condescendingly told me that the boss “already gave me his approval for this.” The message was clear: resistance is futile and “Reverse Seniority” was in full effect …

My friends told me not the take the job. They said the boss, aka “Big Man,” was a demanding prick who expected everything but gave nothing in return. As proof, they said he would brag about his vacation to vacation to Cabo San Lucas to employees who hadn’t had a raise in years. Since I was dead broke college student, I was forced to ignore their warnings and work for “The Company.” (Cue “Imperial March” theme music.)

During my first few months on the job, Big Man was somewhat as my friends described. He drove his Porsche to the office every day, had a different Rolex for every day of the week, and loved to regale us with tales of vacations in faraway lands such as Jamaica, Mexico, and the French Riviera. All that said, he did manage to be nice to me during my first six months; he even regularly complimented me on my columns that appeared in the college newspaper.

About a year in, I noticed that I went from being the star employee to “just another lazy-ass college kid livin’ off his parents’ money.” (It never occurred to him that I took out loans and was working for him to pay my way through school.) According to him, my sales numbers weren’t high enough, my attitude wasn’t positive enough, and I simply couldn’t do enough for The Company. (Cue “The Imperial March” theme.) It bothered me until some of the old timers said not to take it personally, the same thing happened to them. So I soldiered on.

Things completely went to shit during my third year on the job. By then, a new crop of freshmen meant a new crop of employees who soon became the apple of Big Man’s eye. Three of them in particular – Overbite, Double Chin, and Mop Top – were particularly adept at lying, flattering, and sucking the boss’s balls enough to allow them to fly up the company ladder three rungs at a time. Soon, these rookies became the de facto managers and directors of we who’d been there for years. Everything came to a head the day Mop Top sauntered over to my cubicle and saddled me with the additional responsibilities.

As angry as I was, I knew there was no use arguing about it. Mop Top was Big Man’s new pet and the two of them had already made up their minds. Plus, I already knew Big Man’s take on human resources management: “If you don’t like it, there’s the door.” And even if I did complain about being overworked and underpaid, I already know what he would’ve said: “A company has only two priorities: to its profits and its stockholders.” It was a nice way of saying, “Fuck off! You don’t deserve anything.”

Needless to say, Big Man went through the roof when I quit. In a matter of seconds, he was reminded about how much he and The Company (Cue “Imperial March” theme.) actually needed me. But instead of conducting an exit interview to learn about his shortcomings as a leader, he chose to yell and scream at me. “How can you do this to me after all I’ve done for you?” he said. I had to point out to him that a company’s only priorities are to its profits and stockholders. As CEO of J.P. Ribner, LLC, I owed it to my stockholders – my wife and child – to earn more money with a company would pay me more and I my work would be appreciated. I’m sure the lesson was lost on him.

Sadly, reverse seniority is common amongst narcissistic bosses. Their attention spans are notoriously short and since they believe they’re entitled to everything, they’re unable to appreciate what any one employee has done. Also, quiet, steady, hardworking employees don’t create the kind of excitement that silver-tongued false flatterers do, so it’s easy for the slow-and-steady types to fade into the darkness while the spotlight is trained on the boss and his pets. If you have a narcissistic boss, my advice is simple: Fire them before they fire you. My only regret is that it took my three years to do it.

Cue “Imperial March” theme.

I really lashed out at some of my former bullies and would-be bullies on Monday’s post. Since most of them aren’t my friends on Facebook, I thought it only fair to message them a link to the story and invite them to respond to me if they feel so inclined. After all, I don’t want to be perceived as the guy who “talks shit about people behind their back.” Here is a person-by-person update on the responses, or lack thereof, I received. As to be expected, some were better than others.

Little King & the Pinoy Powerhouse

I’ll lump these two together only because both of these gentlemen manned up and apologized for their actions from days gone by. Further, after chatting with them on Facebook, I can see that they each have an interesting story to tell, and I’m enjoying reading them … and getting to know both of them better in the process. Many men are loathe to apologize for things they’ve done, big or small, so I commend both of them for having the courage to do what they thought was right in their hearts. As far as I’m concerned, all is forgiven and I no longer see them as “former bullies or would-be” bullies any more. What can I say? I’m a big softie at heart; I even cried when I saw E.T. (But don’t tell anyone!)

Two-Ton Tony

None of the bullies I mentioned in my first post garnered as many responses as Two-Ton Tony. Some of his former friends messaged me to tell me of the harrowing experiences with him. Listening to them, I couldn’t help but wonder if Two-Ton Tony is a sociopath, since his behavior – as described by them – showed all the classic traits of this personality disorder.

Anyway, after a bit of cyber-sleuthing on my part, I was able to find Two-Ton Tony’s workplace. As it so happens, I’m in need of the services provided by said business or one like it. All things considered, I was thinking “no better time than the present” to swing up there and talk with my old classmate. As luck would have it, Mr. Two-Ton and his boss were standing in the parking lot, conversing with someone else, when I pulled up. I got out of my car and approached them, my mind and my body sharpened and ready for anything.

Standing before your ol’ high school bully after 20+ years is quite a surreal experience. There he was, the man who threatened to “stomp my face into the concrete” for nearly an entire school year was now standing before me. And now, the size disparity between the two of us wasn’t as drastic as it had been back then. He’s still a fatass and taller than me, but my years of weight training lessened the size differential that I thought was a factor back in ’88.

As I stood there, a flood of emotions came rushing into my brain, each one struggling against the other for control of my consciousness. Part of me wanted to smash his face and keep on smashing until one of us was the only one standing. Another part of me urged myself to stay calm, since the presence of at least two coworkers put the odds were decidedly in Tony’s favor. The other part of me wondered if he’s even the same person he was back then.

As the conversation progressed in the mid-day August sun, I’m not entirely certain that Two-Ton Tony fully recognized me while he was giving me a job estimate. There was a point where I caught him starting at me, but when he noticed me notice him, he quickly averted my gaze, added a few more steps between us. If I had to take a guess, I’m not entirely certain he knew it was me, J.P. Ribner, the person he decided was not worthy of having a peaceful senior year. If I had to take a guess, he probably was looking at me, wondering where he knew me.

As I left the parking lot laughing, I decided to make sure he knew who paid him a visit. Upon returning home, I decided to send him a link to my first blog about him with the following Facebook message:

“Hey Tony! It was nice to see you today, and even better that you were actually nice to me. I don’t want it ever to be said that I talk about people behind their backs. I’d like you to read this story and get back to me.”

Facebook registered him as reading the message around 7:30pm. The following morning, sometime around 8am, I received this response:

“This whole encounter is very bizarre and borderline stalker type actions. Consider this your notification that you will be trespassing if you return to my [place of business] ever again. Any more communication to me will be taken as harassment and dealt with accordingly.”

Okay. Just to recap for you good people. Two-Ton Tony was the guy who used to follow me around in the hallway AND out to the car after school, threatening to kick my ass six ways to Sunday. And this went on for an ENTIRE school year! It only stopped after I blocked that weak-ass punch he threw at me during the pep rally, then stood my ground when he came lumbering toward me, talking all kinds of shit. But look what happens when I pay him ONE visit at his job – I’m “bizarre” and engaging in “borderline stalker-type actions.”


Here was his chance to say, “Hey Ribner … I was a jerk to you back then. I’m really sorry, man.” That’s all it would’ve taken to make this whole thing between us go away. I would’ve been just as happy if he stepped up and said, “That’s right! I did bully you, and I’ll do it again. Meet me at …” And for the record, I’d be happy to meet him anywhere he’d want to meet so we can finally find out who’ll be the last man standing.

Instead of either of those options, Two-Ton Tony bitched out and chose Door Number 3: an implied threat of calling the police! Oh, and he blocked me on Facebook, too, which I guess is his way of “dealing with it accordingly.”

I can’t help but to laugh my fucking ass off at the complete joke that he’s become. To sum it all up, in high school, he might’ve roared like a lion; but now, he’s nothing but a passive little lamb. Or, as my lovely wife put it, “Looks like Two-Ton Tony is a big, fat pussy!” She’s right, you know.

There’s something else I find interesting about Two-Ton Tony’s response. Is shows a complete failure to accept responsibility for his own actions, which, coincidentally, is ANOTHER trait of a sociopath.

Kinda makes you wonder, doesn’t it?

The Anabolic Israeli Commando

Next on the list is the Anabolic Israeli Commando. Since he’s not a Facebook friend, my message to him has likely gone unnoticed in his “other” folder … the tiny one that no one ever checks because it’s not where messages from their friends go. If he doesn’t respond in a couple days, I’ll send him a friend request and hope for the best. Although the A.I.C. never said “I’m sorry” for what happened between us, he did more or less redeem himself for his actions the following school year, and I must admit that I forgot to include this detail in my original post detailing only his dastardly deeds. So, in the interests of full disclosure, here’s the story how my former high school bully actually turned around and did something good for me. (So if you’re reading this, A.I.C., keep in mind that I’m manning up and giving you your props where you deserve them!)

During the summer before my senior year, I ran into Crawdaddy, who was someone I at least enjoyed talking to while at Powers. During our conversation, he mentioned that he had borrowed a cassette tape – KISS, I believe – from the A.I.C., but he’d be unable to return it since he wouldn’t be returning to Powers for his senior year. Frankly, he was sick of all the bullshit. He said he didn’t want to ask me to take the tape back for him since he knew of the history between myself and the Commando, but I assured him that it would be fine. The A.I.C. and I had spoken a few times after the incident – nothing beyond your typical “What’s up?” cordiality – and I didn’t see a problem with me returning his tape for Crawdaddy. And so the situation was settled … or so I thought.

One problem occurred when I got back to school – I didn’t have the A.I.C. in any classes nor did I ever see him in the hallway. I did, however bump into a mutual acquaintance whom we’ll call “Shades” for the simple fact that he wore those self-tinting glasses that all Stoners who have to wear glasses used to wear in the 80s. Since I knew Shades was friends with the A.I.C., I asked him if he’d be kind enough to give him the KISS tape, to which Shades said, “Oh yeah! Sure, man. No problem. I’ll give it to him when I see him in Science class.” That was the last I heard from Shades, but not the last I heard from the A.I.C.

A few days after the hand-off, I went to my locker to see the A.I.C. looming there beside it. I asked him what was up and he told me that Shades told him that I had his tape and wasn’t going to give it back. At that point, I told the A.I.C. what really happened, adding, “Why the fuck would I want to keep your tape, dude? I don’t even like KISS.” He retorted by saying, “Well why would Shades make that up?” The answer to that seemed as plain as the nose on my face, but maybe he didn’t see it. I explained, “He’s keeping it ’cause he’s hoping you and I will fight again.” Upon saying that, the A.I.C. tilted his head to the side, gave me a look, then clapped his hand on my shoulder and said, “Okay. Well I’m gonna go talk to him and take care of it.” And that’s the last I saw of the Anabolic Israeli Commando and Shades. I can only assume the case of the missing KISS tape was taken care of and the true guilty party was punished.

Little Italy

Little Italy, the Italian miniature pony, might not ever respond to my overture. For one thing, we’re not Facebook friends, so my message is likely sitting in his “other” message folder. I was also unable to send him a friend request due to fact that the security on his page is tighter than Fort Knox. Perhaps that has something to do with his recently-confirmed drug arrest and conviction. Mama mia! It would appear that my erstwhile bully was arrested for possession of at least 25 grams of cocaine, which carries a 2-4-year sentence. He’s currently on probation, and hopefully he’s able to piece his life back together and rid himself of the chains of addiction.

Ol’ Buckethead

Also not a Facebook friend, I don’t suppose he’s seen the message. Or, he’s seen it and has chosen not to respond. Then again, considering that he was the guy who once threatened to beat me up for saying “hello” to him, he could be on his way to Metro Detroit right now, determined to put an end to the menace that is J.P. Ribner. Perhaps Little King or the Pinoy Powerhouse could reach out to him and encourage him to make contact and squash this thing once and for all. It would be nice to be able to cross another name off the naughty list.

Well, that’s it for this installment, but there will be plenty more exciting stories from Powers Catholic High School to come. Stay tuned!

J.P. Ribner is the author of three novels: Legacy of the Bear, Prophecy of the Bear, and World So Dark.

Bullies at a Catholic school? You betcha! And while they were nothing more than a rag-tag group of two-bit tough guys and shit-talkers, they managed to make my last two years of high school a living hell.

Sometime near the end of my sophomore year at Hamady High School, I had the brilliant idea to transfer to Powers Catholic High School for my junior and senior years. For those of you who read my four-part series Fat Boys are Back (And J.P. is Under Attack), you’ll know that a big part of why I decided to change schools was because I felt that I didn’t fit in at Hamady, and it was a school in which I had no friends. I was wrong, of course, but I didn’t realize that then. I foolishly thought that at Powers – which had about four times the amount of students as Hamady – I could surely find at least one or two people to call a friend. (Such things were important to me then.) I also didn’t think it was a big deal because I had attended a Catholic junior high school in Flint, Michigan (Donovan Mayotte), so transferring from a public to a Catholic school wasn’t exactly uncharted waters for me.

I was right about one thing – Powers had about four times as many students … and easily as many bullies.

To be honest, I was warned that transferring in my junior year was probably not a brilliant idea. Many people told me that by eleventh grade, most people’s friendships and social cliques were well established, and breaking into a circle of friends as a complete stranger would prove a Augean task. I was undaunted in my desire to switch schools, however, due in large part to the effects of the ill-fated attempt to see the Fat Boys perform at the Capitol Theatre and the unfortunate social falling out that ensued. And so, following the tumultuous summer of 1986, I marched into Powers Catholic with the intention of linking up with like-minded students and finally finding what I’d been searching for all along – a place where I belonged. Instead, I learned some valuable lessons about the weakness of human character, both mine and those who tried to torment me.

In their infinite wisdom, the administrations at Powers Catholic set me on a course to be shamed by my fellow students before I ever set foot in a classroom. Being a mere peasant from a small public school, I was stuck in several classes a year below my academic level. Being surrounded by sophomores was rather embarrassing, to be honest, and I’m still convinced that I was one of many victims of Powers’ caste system. After all, while my family had one of the biggest houses in Mayfair (my old neighborhood, aka “the hood”), it was a shack compared to the homes those rich Powers kids lived in. I didn’t even have my own car in those days, yet many of these kids were rolling into the parking lot in Mercedes Benzs or BMWs! The biggest drawback to being placed in these remedial classes was that it gave these rich little shits plenty of ammunition to use against me, and it was usually along the lines of me being “dumb,” “stupid,” etc. Having a bit of a mouth on me myself, I always fired back, which is how I often ran afoul of Powers resident bullies.

The bullies at Powers, for the most part, fell into two distinct cliques – The Preppy Gang and The Stoners. To call either of these this rag-tag collections momma’s boys and second-rate juvenile delinquents “bullies” might be giving them too much credit, however. The Preppy Gang had a “fight-one, fight-us-all” mentality, which more or less made them a gang, albeit one that wore heavy corduroy pants with huge grooves, penny loafers, and the latest Polo/Brooks Brothers/L.L. Bean ensembles. This group also liked to engage in something I call “bullying-by-proxy,” in that they would enlist older guys in my class to try to fuck with me because the members of The Preppy Gang were a far too effeminate bunch to actually step up and go toe-to-toe.

As for The Stoners, they were pretty much your garden variety 80s burnout crew – puffy mullets, cheap corduroys, ill-fitting collared shirts, and untied high-top sneakers. This group was more likely to throw a wild haymaker, since that’s what they occasionally did at their drink- and drug-fueled weekend parties that became part of lunchroom lore. They really should’ve been called “The Boners” because each one of them acted like the gigantic, vein-laden cock they likely wished they had between their legs.

Whether it was The Preppy Gang or The Stoners, both groups seemed as though they were always looking for a fight. Me being a thin, small-statured, socially awkward loner who didn’t have any backup to call upon made me the ideal target. Now that we have that out of the way, let’s move on to the bullies themselves.
The Little King
My trouble with The Preppy Gang began the day I crossed paths with a girlish, limp-wristed dandy whom I call Little King. Like all members of this little sewing circle, Little King had a nasty little mouth on him, along with the complete inability to back it up. This would’ve proven a lethal combination had his royal majesty spent one semester at Hamady; but since this was Powers, such behavior was not only tolerated, it was considered the norm for these privileged pansies. Sometime early in Felix Lehmkuhle’s science class, the Little King decided to pop off at the mouth, calling me “stupid” or “retarded” or something like that, whereupon I promptly informed him that I would snatch the perceived crown from his head and shove it up his ass so far he wouldn’t be able to breathe. Little King indulged himself in the obligatory ruffling of feathers and mumbling under his breath, but he did so whilst steadily backing away from me. Foolishly, I thought that would be the end of things; but later that week, I was confronted once more by the Little King and he had brought his royal court with him … all of whom claiming they would jump me and kick my ass.
The Pinoy Powerhouse
Old grudges die hard, which is why it’s no surprise that the Pinoy Powerhouse was willing to step up and fight me on behalf of the Little King. Short yet rather stocky and with a hot temper to match, this Filipino fighter and I had gone at it many years earlier at Donovan South, one of the many Catholic junior high schools that feed into Powers. I don’t quite remember what the argument was about back then, but the fight consisted of us hurling insults whilst circling each other, and the highlight being both of us landing hooks at precisely the same time, causing each of us to stumble backwards and begin our circling and taunting once more. Much like my run-in with the Little King – and our earlier fight at Donovan – the Pinoy Powerhouse and I traded insults back and forth in the lunchroom, both of us swearing to destroy the other. In other words, nothing more than the rattling to sabers was to be seen that day.
Ol’ Buckethead
If you have a mother like mine, do yourself a favor and DO NOT take social advice from her. If you do, you might end up in a fight with an asshole like Ol’ Buckethead. A tangential member of The Preppy Gang, Ol’ Buckethead’s appearance really lived up to that moniker. Although a year younger than me, this unfortunate lad was already losing his hair by his sophomore year. In fact, his hairline was receding so much that it made his head look like the head of a man in his 60s, which is not a good look for a tenth-grader … and even worse if one’s head is shaped like a bucket flipped on its side and slammed atop a skinny, pencil-like neck. Anyway, in her ongoing efforts to increase my shame and humiliation, Mommy Dearest suggested I be more personable, perhaps say “hello” to my fellow students, and maybe I might make a friend.

Against my better judgment, I walked into Lehmkuhle’s science class (in retrospect, most of my troubles seemed to originate there), and made my way to my seat. Since Buckethead sat next to me, I decided to say, “Hey man. What’s up?” as I sat down. Suddenly, that elongated, head snapped ’round in my direction and he said, “You don’t know me, motherfucker! I’ll kick your fuckin’ ass!” Like my encounters with the rest of The Preppy Gang, I was able to keep Ol’ Buckethead from jumping up out of his Sperry Topsiders and swinging wildly upon me by uttering a few choice words of my own.

Suffice to say, Mom’s advice did not work and Buckethead and I never became friends nor mended fences. Instead, he soon threw his lot in with The Preppy Gang to present a united front against the odd stranger who dared enter their midst. (Update: after a bit of cyber-sleuthing, I was able to locate Ol’ Buckethead’s Faceboook profile. True to my suspicions, he’s as bald as a buzzard these days and his head is as gigantic and bulbous as ever. I mean, it’s shaped like a fucking light bulb!)
Little Italy
I don’t have anything against Italians; in fact, some of my best friends trace their ancestry to “The Boot.” But the bully I’m about to describe was not only a proud Italian, he was also a rather stereotypical one, right down to the dark, slicked-back hair and golden horn pendant he wore around his neck on a gold chain. To put it bluntly, this guy was Jersey Shore LONG before the world ever heard of the likes of Vinnie and Paulie D. And mama mia! did he have a temper! I say’a, Mistah Italy! What’s a’matta wit you?

At the height of my feud with The Preppy Gang, I was heading down the hall on my way to class, when I turned the corner and was walking right through Preppy Rowe. From both sides of me, I became taunted by the likes of Little King and the rest of those effeminate momma’s boys that that made up that clique. Naturally, I fired back with some insults and threats of my own, and the next thing I know, all four-feet, two inches of Little Italy was suddenly in my face, screaming about how he’ll tear my head off for “talkin’ shit” to his friends. To this, his so-called “friends” giggled and squealed like a bunch of cheerleaders on prom night, no doubt relieved that someone was willing to carry their tattered banner into battle on their behalf. In the end, it boiled down to me – the Slovak Warrior – and Little Italy both daring the other to “take the first swing,” and this macho charade ended the moment the bell for class began to ring.
The Anabolic Israeli Commando
One of the toughest (self-proclaimed) members of The Stoners was The Anabolic Israeli Commando. Tall and with a dark brown mullet, The A.I.C. was proud of his Jewish heritage and was often seen reading Soldier of Fortune magazine during class and no doubt dreaming of engaging in heated battles in the Gaza strip. He also had arguably the most well-developed musculature in all of the school, the result of his near-fanatical weightlifting regimen. It was long rumored that this was boosted by a steady regimen of steroids. No one dared say this to him, though, for to do so would mean certain death at his hands … which coincidentally, makes the rumor that much more believable. (It also didn’t help that his father – a physician – was convicted with unlawful distribution of prescription drugs, possession of machine guns, and other charges.)

Long story short, The A.I.C. and I had a class together, one rowdy remedial math class that was so out of control, that fights, near-fights, and shit-talking were a daily occurrence. Similar to my aborted bout with Little Italy, I initially ran afoul of The A.I.C. when another student – Froggy – got in over his head with some shit-talking to me. It was a classic case of battleship mouth/rowboat ass, but Froggy had an ace up his sleeve. He walked up to me with The A.I.C. in tow and said, “If you try to do anything to me, you’ll have to go through him.” From that day forward, I became The A.I.C.’s sworn enemy, and he became mine. And so began a school year-long dance of shit-talking, threats, and near battles that all boiled to a head one balmy day near the end of my junior year.

I remember walking into class and heading toward my desk, which meant passing by The A.I.C.’s desk in the next row. As I was preparing to sit down, A.I.C. socked me rather hard in the shoulder. Without thinking, I spun and drilled him in his chest, just above his heart … a move that sealed my fate. “I’m gonna kick your ass after class,” he said. And he meant it! Like all bullies – Stoners, in particular – there is “the rule”: they can do whatever they want to you, but you don’t dare do the same to them. If you do, you better be able to back it up. Well, true to his word, he followed me out into the hall and handed his books to one of his sycophants. I handed my books to an acquaintance and prepared for what I had convinced myself would be the ultimate ass-whipping.

The A.I.C. began swinging on me, connecting with my face with a couple of hooks. Admittedly, he got a few good shots in before I grabbed both of his wrists to immobilize him. I still remember the look of shock in his eyes when his overdeveloped biceps were unable to pull loose of my grasp. (Apparently, adrenaline strength trumps steroids.) To his credit, A.I.C. improvised by pushing my head down into his oncoming knee – it might have been once, it might have been twice – causing a hairline fracture in my nose. I pushed him off of me, knocking him back against the lockers and jumped back out of range, quickly assessing the damage to my face – bloody nose. Then, he and I locked eyes – Guilt? Fear? Remorse? Apathy? – that caused him to freeze. I did too … for a moment. Then the thought of charging forward and slamming my fist into his face bubbled up from my primordial subconscious just as the teachers swarmed the scene to separate us and usher us to the office.

To this day, my biggest regret was allowing my fear of The A.I.C. to overwhelm me. This fear, not his punches or even his bone-crunching Muay Thai kneestrikes – allowed him to win that fight. Did my nose feel broken? Yes. Did it bleed? Yes. But did it hurt? Not really. Adrenaline is a powerful chemical and it’s one that has flowed quite freely through my veins for as long as I can remember. The following year, my relationship with The A.I.C. lacked all the two-way animosity that marked our interactions from the year before; but still, it always itched in the back of my brain that what he did to me should not go unpunished. Unfortunately, I didn’t have any time to rekindle my battle with this muscle-bound human bulldozer – losing the fight to him practically painted a bullseye on my chest that drew every wannabe bully and two-bit tough guy out of the woodwork to fight me during my senior year.
Two-Ton Tony
The second Stoner to set me square in his sights was Two-Ton Tony. He was a mountain of a man; a full 300+ pounds of beer-drinkin’, pot-smokin’, potato-chip eatin’ blubber. And a man that size could still be formidable and even dangerous if he were to get a hold of my 5’10”, 160-lb. ass. A member of the Stoner crew, he had all the stoner accoutrement: the requisite mullet, untied high-top sneakers, earring in the left ear only, and a Bondo-covered van that blasted out Guns ‘n Roses and Metallica in the parking lot after school. He also had a grudge against me that lasted the entire school year.

I don’t know how or why Two-Ton Tony had it out for me. We didn’t have any classes together and I never took the time to talk to him or his best friend and sidekick, Little Joe, who was a near carbon copy of Two-Ton Tony, save for being shorter and less of girth. The only way I can figure it was that my fight with The Anabolic Israeli Commando happened practically in front of Two-Ton Tony’s locker, and perhaps his fat, sadistic ass got a kick (no pun intended) out seeing his friend, The A.I.C., dish some punishment out to me. From everything I’ve since been told about Two-Ton Tony, he was an angry, miserable person whose only way to feel better about himself was to tear other people down. Perhaps seeing me on the losing end of the scuffle with The A.I.C. made me an easy target in his mind. So let the games begin!

My senior year was one of constant torment from Two-Ton Tony. Whenever he would see me in the hallway, he made sure to tell me that I was a “faggot” and a “pussy” and that he was going to kick my ass. Since my loss to The A.I.C. the year before had shaken what little confidence and belief in myself I might have had, I did my best to ignore him. This kept his antagonism strictly on the verbal level. As my misfortune would have it, Two-Ton Tony’s asshole older brother, some bargain-basement Jason Bateman wannabe, happened to work at the grocery store in my neighborhood, and he always made a point to remind me how Two-Ton Tony would pound my dick into the dirt every time I was sent up there by Mommy Dearest to pick up groceries.

The closest Two-Ton Tony and I came to exchanging blows was in the upper level of the bleachers during a pep rally. Why I decided to stand near The Stoners I have no idea, but there I was, standing against the railing, with Two-Ton Tony on the top bleacher just below me. A casual turn of his head caused him to notice I was standing behind him, which was followed by a “What the fuck you lookin’ at?” comment. (Of course. Because my whole goal in life is to look at assholes with chips on their shoulders.) He fired a hard, straight right toward my stomach, which I quickly deflected with a “wax-off” block, knocking his pudgy hand – with its fat, Polish sausage fingers – into the metal railing. “That’s it!” he shouted, before slipping through the gap in the railing with incredible grace for a fatass.

Next thing I know, Two-Ton Tony is in my face, telling me he’s gonna kick my ass, as all the Stoner asshole crowd around us in a circle, shouting encouragements for him to do just that. I’ll never forget one of my so-called friends, Sir Kerry of the Blue Camaro, shoving his face practically into mine and saying, “Do it, Tony! Kick his ass, man. Kick his fuckin’ ass!” To my credit, I didn’t back down, and my stand-off with Two-Ton Tony ended much like many of my near-skirmishes at Powers, with both side daring the other to “take the first shot, man.” And like that, my feud with Two-Ton Tony ended as quickly – and as strangely – as it began.
What Does it all Mean?
So, if writing this blog is to be some type of therapy, the question of “What does it all mean?” inevitably must be asked … and answered. If I have to say anything, it feels good to unburden myself of all of this. I’ve been carrying around far too much trauma for more than 25 years, and I’ve come to a point in life where I believe my own health and mental stability requires me to purge these demons, one story at a time. As to my former bullies, some might read this yet many will not, as social media has connected me with but a scant few of these lads. For those who do, perhaps they’ll recognize themselves and use this opportunity to reach out to me to apologize … or at least just discuss the issue. Then again, they might not take too kindly to my unflattering portrayals of their high school selves, thus urging them to want to avenge their tarnished honors. I wouldn’t be bothered if that were the case. While I may have “lost” one fight at Powers, and walked away from many others, there were some I won and in rather violent and dramatic fashion. As to those tales … well … that’s a whole ’nother story!

J.P. Ribner’s experiences with bullies and the violence they cause has led to his creation of three novels: Legacy of the Bear, Prophecy of the Bear, and World So Dark.

“Look out!” Skeeter shouted, but the warning came too late.


I heard the familiar sound of bone crashing into meat, muscle, and tissue reverberating through my head. Bright burning pain radiated through my retainer bent inside my mouth. Immediately, my school books dropped from my side and went crashing to the black asphalt of the Hamady High School parking lot, and I could see my attacker backing away from me, shouting “C’mon, faggot! Let’s go!” He was serious when he threatened me at lunch; the thought flashed through my head like a lightning bolt. So did another one – I’m gonna kill this mother fucker! Bringing my fists up to my face in a guard, I closed the distance between us.

Perhaps I should start at the beginning …

With the horrors of the Fat Boys incident behind me, I planned to ride out my sophomore year at Hamady High School with no more reminders of that terrifying night. I had discarded my love of hip hop and b-boy persona the way a snake sheds its skin and adopted the cultural affectations of a skateboarder/punk rocker. This brought the usual taunts from the typical sources; but by and large, everything was going relatively fine … until the arrival of a pugnacious young man whom we’ll call the “Golden Mullet.”

The Golden Mullet was more than a bad ‘80s hairstyle, he was also a recent transfer from some god-forsaken shithole such as Beecher, Burton, or the dreaded East Side. As his nickname would suggest, the Golden Mullet sported a puffy mullet with the same shade and thickness as that precious metal, and he had all the affectations of a typical ’80s bully: tight, peg-legged jeans tucked into high-top sneakers, left untied. Up top were the requisite band t-shirts, most often the likes of Motley Crue and Ozzy, with a pack of Marlboro reds rolled up in one sleeve.

He also had “the walk.”

Anyone who was ever tormented by a bully in the ’80s has seen “the walk.” This bizarre pantomime consisted of puffing one’s chest out and squaring the shoulders to make themselves as wide as possible. And it doesn’t stop there. Practitioners would curl their arms out at their sides as if they were a gunslinger in the Wild West, and they also kicked their feet as they walked, causing their heels to clunk hard into the floor as they proceeded down the hallway. All of this was set off with a narrowing of the eyes and tipping the head back so that they were literally looking down upon everyone they passed. Put all of this together and add in the occasional challenge of shouting “What?” or “What’re you lookin’ at?” and you have “the walk.”

Keep in mind, “the walk” wasn’t all fashion – it had function, too. By making themselves as wide as physically possible, the Golden Mullet and other high school bullies increased the odds that they would bump into their fellow students. This, of course, gave them the excuse to beat someone up … because if there’s one thing you don’t do, it’s make contact with this type of bully. Even so much as an accidental brush was provocation to violence because their precious reputations and gigantic egos simply couldn’t allow such a brazen “challenge” to go ignored.

So this is what landed in our neighborhood and took up residence on Mott Avenue. And the Golden Mullet wasn’t alone, either. He quickly fell in with another group of like-minded – and equally fashionable – Motley Crue fans who lived on nearby Doran Avenue, and an impromptu gang was formed. Being new to both the school and our neighborhood, the Golden Mullet no doubt felt the need to prove himself and establish his reputation as a person not to be fucked with. Since my friend and I had already had a minor beef with the aforementioned mulleted metal mavens, the Golden Mullet was eager to take up the challenge of beating up J.P. Ribner.

It was a challenge he relished all too well.

For months, the Golden Mullet threatened me in school. He also stood outside of Double D supermarket one chilly winter’s night and gestured for me to come outside and fight him. The only thing that saved me from having to confront him as I left was the fact that my mother was with me. I can only surmise that since the Golden Mullet was always close with his mother, perhaps he chose not to smash my face in front of mine. I breathed a sigh of relief that he found it in his heart to spare me the humiliation of being pummeled in front of Mommy Dearest.

Though several confrontations between us had been averted, I seemed destined to have to fight this rambunctious stoner, and the plain fact of the matter was, I was afraid. Call me silly, but I foolishly believed all his bluff and bluster of being the toughest guy in the world. I did what I could to avoid his challenges until one day, I could avoid them no more. And would you believe that it all started over a penny?

Walking back from lunch with my friend Skeeter, I saw the Golden Mullet coming at me at a rapid pace. The next thing I know, he makes a motion with his arm like he’s Ron fucking Guidry, and suddenly I’m being pelted in the chest with a handful of change. He said, “Go buy some lunch, faggot!” and the comment was followed by the laughter of his friends. Without even thinking, I quickly bent down, scooped up at least one of the pennies that hit me, and fired it at him, hitting him square in the eye.

Infuriated by the pain and loss of face in front of his friends, the Golden Mullet came chest-to-chest with me. A verbal torrent of threats and insults poured forth from his offensive mouth but I was too heated up to care. A teacher came around the corner and told us both to go back to class, and to be honest, I thought that was the end of it. Clearly, I completely forgot “the rule” – bullies can do whatever they want to me, but I can’t do the same back to them without getting my ass kicked.

Flash forward to 2:45pm, as Skeeter and I are walking home, talking about who knows what. We crossed a small, grassy hill and entered the parking lot proper, walking past a row of Regals and Cutlass Supremes that were jacked up in the back, with fat tires and Cragar rims. Apparently, the Golden Mullet had been hiding behind one of these vehicles, waiting in ambush. As I passed him by, he burst forth toward me and, without my seeing him, hit me in the jaw from behind before jumping back from me and dancing around, taunting me.

This was a HUGE mistake!

Without one single thought to the fear I once had, I charged the Golden Mullet and the glorious and chaotic mess of our infamous brawl began. I swung a right hook at him which, in my highly adrenalized state, completely missed his face. Fortunately, because I had some experience in the martial arts, I knew what a backfist was and I simply swung my right fist back and caught him underneath his eye. He went to kick me and I jumped back but not quick enough to dodge his shoe, which came flying off his foot and hit me in the chest.

“Hold on!” he shouted. “Let me get me shoe on.”

I kicked the raggedy high top back at him and told him to hurry up, which he did. We were back at it again and, in all the confusion, he somehow managed to grab my shoulders and take us both to the ground. A little something about me – I’m terrified if fights go to the ground. I wasn’t a skilled wrestler, and being on the ground leaves you practically defenseless if someone’s friends decide to get involved. I did the only thing I could do – I grabbed hold of his mullet with one hand and pulled his head back, then I shoved the index finger of my other hand into his eye and viciously scratched his cornea.

“Lenny! David!” he shrieked, beseeching his fellow members of the Mullet Militia. “Help me! Get him off’a me!”

On the one hand, I was bolstered by the fear in the Golden Mullet’s voice and it made me rip at his eyeball even harder. On the other hand, his friends Lenny and David were standing above me and either or both could’ve easily stomped my head to a pulp. To their credit as gentlemen however, they did no such thing. In fact, I’ll never forget what David, the older of the two, had said.

“You’re the one who wanted to fight him, so fight him!”

Somehow we struggled back to our feet but I maintained an iron grip on his bale-of-hay hair. I quickly circled behind him and put my arms under his arms and got him into a full Nelson, which was tightly secured with now two handfuls of his amazing golden hair. He froze, unable to break free of my hold, and I took full advantage of this by head-butting him in the back of the head seven or eight times, leaving him a bit wobbly.

“Let him go!” someone shouted. “Someone’s comin’!”

Looking over the Golden Mullet’s head, I saw high school principal Lone Wolf McSuede running toward us at full speed. I gave my erstwhile tormentor a hard shove and he whirled around and stared at me for a second, and all the fire that was once inside his eyes seemed extinguished. In that moment, he knew he had been beaten, and I knew it to. We nodded to each other, an impromptu agreement that each would be given safe passage out of there. We successfully evaded McSuede … until he pulled us into the office the next day and gave us both a three-day suspension.

But what does this have to do with what happened at the Fat Boys show, you might be wondering? Ironically, the connection between these two incidents occurred to me last Friday like a bolt out of the blue.

As previously stated, I was terrified of the Golden Mullet. He seemed bigger than me, and he definitely carried himself with more self esteem than I ever had back then. I was shocked that I reacted the way I did – jumping into action without fear – because it seemed so out of character for me. Knowing what I know now about Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, I can see that his initial punch triggered all the unresolved anger from that incident that I had been carrying around with me, and my anger overrode my fears. It was practically the same punch from the same angle, after all, and I’m convinced that there’s no possible way that a connection between the two can be denied.

His second mistake was backing off after that first punch. Had he just continued hitting me, there was a good chance I might not have ever been able to gather the presence of mind to mount a successful counter-offense. If he had followed through with his surprise attack, there’s a very good chance he could’ve dominated me and even knocked me out. That said, I’m thankful for his mistakes!

You readers will likely be glad to know that the animosities between the Golden Mullet and myself ceased not long after the fight. It was he who came up to me one day and said, “Look, you’re gonna say you won the fight, and I’m gonna say I won; but neither one of us has a problem with each other so let’s just bury the hatchet.” I shook his hand and the two of us continued doing skateboarding tricks in the school’s parking lot, not 20 feet from where we had fought a year or two before.

While this chapter has a happy ending, the imprint of the Fat Boys incident remained in my psyche for many many years to come, which you’ll hear about tomorrow in my fourth and final installment of: Fat Boys are Back … and J.P. is Under Attack!


The familiar sound of bone crashing into meat, muscle, and tissue reverberated through my head. I knew what happened before the sensation of pain, bright and burning, radiated through my jaw and into my head. I’d been punched in the head, hard! A sharp, stabbing pain in my jaw followed, making it painful to touch, talk, or move; but I was still standing, and still able to turn to face my attacker …

I should start at the beginning.

Back in those halcyon and seemingly carefree days of 1984 (or ’85), I was one of a few of white boys who became enamored with the hip hop, breakdancing, and graffiti art zeitgeist. Our fellow classmates at Hamady High didn’t make it easy on us – the redneck whites tried shaming us for listening to what they called “n***** music,” while the black dudes eyed us with skepticism and the familiar refrain of “white boys don’t have rhythm.” Still, we soldiered on, and the ritual of backspins on flattened cardboard boxes was a familiar site in many a Mt. Morris Township driveway. I was in the thick of it all, happy to have cultivated a talent and the props that came with it.

On the night in question, fellow b-boys M&M, Duster, and Special K asked me to see the Fat Boys at the Capitol Theatre. While I preferred RUN DMC, Newcleus, and the Wild Style soundtrack, I was thrilled that the guys wanted to include me. My pre-teen and teenage years were lonely at best, with few people willing to risk social suicide by hanging out with me after school. I practically jumped into Special K’s car, completely oblivious to the trauma and life-changing events that were about to unfold before me.

So we were standing outside the Capitol, waiting to be let in to the show, when someone sucker-punched me. Turning to confront my attacker, I saw was a sea of various shades of brown skin and what seemed like hundreds of pairs of brown eyes glaring back at me. I’d been in situations where I wasn’t wanted – parties, school functions, etc. – but this was the first time where there was the possibility of dire consequences attached to my “intrusion.” I was outnumbered and painfully aware of how out of place I was. I didn’t belong, and I wanted out!

During all of this, a strange feeling of calm came over me. It’s called “normalcy bias,” and it’s something I wouldn’t learn about until 30 years later. The term refers to the state of calm that overtakes some people during disaster or emergency situations. Rather than going into a blind panic or doing something to save themselves, those afflicted with normalcy bias will calmly sit or stand in place, waiting for help to arrive or the situation to right itself. Sadly, those who are paralyzed by normalcy bias often die … even when safety is one simple decision away.

So there I stood, feet frozen to the sidewalk, not knowing what to do. The irrational part of my mind kept expecting someone, anyone, to come to my rescue. But who? My friends? Security? Prince Markie Dee? I was helpless and alone, afraid to confront my unknown attacker, yet equally terrified to say anything to my friends. I was afraid that my need for safety would’ve ruined everyone’s night. It sounds silly now, but that was my reality then – the legacy of Trauma Central, where my family’s happiness was my responsibility, and their miseries my fault.)

I did the only thing I thought I could do: I scooted a bit closer to my group and continued to stand there, my back to the crowd that no doubt aided and abetted my attacker.


So one punch to my jaw not enough for him; I was an idiot to think that it would be. Again, the pain radiated throughout my head and again, my mind was flooded with the most powerful feelings of terror and shame … a rather toxic cocktail. I also felt anger, the kind that anyone feels when caught in a helpless and hopeless situation. If there was any good that came out of that second haymaker, it was that it jarred me out of the normalcy bias that had me in its thrall.

No doubt seeing the look of sheer terror upon my face as I scooted closer still, M&M asked, “What’s wrong, Ribner?”

“Someone fuckin’ hit me!” My reply came out in a forced whisper.


“I don’t know.”

M&M quickly told Duster and Special K what was going on, and an impromptu plan was formed. Switching places with M&M, placing my back against the brick wall of the Capitol, while Special K – the oldest and most streetwise of our group – stood facing the crowd and my attacker. As if in response, a young man approached M&M and, after a brief exchange, opened his jacket to give us all a look at the handgun he had in a holster, secured to his side.

“Gimme whatchu got,” he demanded, “and I’ll make sure dey don’t fuck wit chu.”

Wanting to protect me, M&M, Duster, and Special K forked over whatever they had between them and gave it to the stranger while I stood on the periphery. There was a lull in the attacks as we waited for the line to move; but with the adrenaline coursing through my veins and my heart pounding inside my chest, each minute was an eternity. Eventually, the line inched forward a bit, and then a bit more … we kept moving like herded cattle, unable to keep from casting nervous glances over our shoulders as we did.

Suddenly, the double glass doors of the Capitol Theatre opened and the crowd burst forward.We got jostled around in the movement and I found myself beside my friends; there was no one between me and the attacker in the crowd. My heart sank as I knew I was once again in a bad place, but all I could do was keep moving forward and not get separated from my friends.


Ears ringing and vision blurry, it was clear that the Cheap-Shot Artist wasn’t deterred by the presence of our erstwhile guardian. (As we suspected then and still do now, the two were likely in on it from the beginning … the opportunity to bilk and beat some pussy-ass, cracka-ass, honky, peckerwood muthfuckaz was no doubt too tempting to ignore.)

Within seconds, we were sucked into that huge, gothic structure known as the Capitol and we found ourselves standing elbow-to-elbow with each other – and everyone else who had been in front and behind us – in the lobby. Then, as if on cue, everyone stopped and we were once again standing still. I was fortunate to not have lost my friends, but somewhere in the crowd, my attacker – whose identity was still unknown to me – was nearby. I was trapped, and I knew a decision had to be made …

Here’s Part II …

And Part III …

And finally, Part IV …

What happens when a bully gets called out by their former victim? Does he deny what he did? Maybe he says, “Shut up, or else!” or he tries to justify his behavior by saying, “I only did that ’cause you were eyeballin’ me!”

Or maybe he apologizes and humbly asks for forgiveness …

Last week, I posted “A Bully’s Memory,” my first of what will be many entries about bullying. In it, I called out four bullies from my past who’ve sent me Facebook friend requests that I’ve accepted without discussing the aforementioned bullying. I shared it on Facebook in hopes that the “big four” would recognize themselves and do the right thing. One of them did, the man who I called “Sleazy Rider,” but whom I’ll now forever address by name, Wayne Lutz.

Though I didn’t use his name in the piece, Wayne recognized himself in it. Although he didn’t fully recall the time he snapped in woodshop and threatened to pound me into the ground, he felt horrible for having done so and, to his credit, he publicly apologized. Right there on Facebook for all our shared friends to see, he identified himself as “Sleazy Rider” and shared a rather heartfelt and sincere apology. This makes him more of a man than most people I know who use the term to define themselves. Also to his credit, Wayne sent me an even more sincere and heartfelt apology on Instant Message … a message that spurred a phone call, which pave the way for a reconciliation.

“Hello?” I said.

“Hey J.P. How’s it going?”

There it was … that slow, familiar drawl that I hadn’t heard in six years. Admittedly, it felt a bit odd because I knew we had to discuss the now-infamous “woodshop incident,” especially after I put it out there in such a public way! And so began our conversation, one in which all posturing, ego, attitude and other defense mechanisms are stripped away, allowing two men to just talk as equals, neither one afraid of losing their status or reputation. In that hour, we learned more about each other than either of us thought we knew. I was surprised to find out that he, too, had some issues with bullies at the school. For example, the bully who threatened to slam me into the concrete each day in Spanish class was the same one who used to follow him home from school and threaten him. (I still can’t help but wonder if maybe, just maybe, his lashing out at me was somehow in response to his own torment.)

Frankly, I was surprised to learn that Wayne had been bullied. To be honest, I would’ve never pictured him as someone who had to deal with these things that experienced on a near-daily basis in school. Though we’re the same age, Wayne always seemed so much older and more mature than the rest of us at that time. It was this very attitude that he had it all under control is why I looked up to him back then and why I hung around him as much as I did. Suffice to say, Wayne told me some things that he experienced as a young man, this explained the look of weariness he had in his eyes back then, and why he was forced to grow up faster than his emotions could handle at that time. Out of respect for him, that’s about all I can say … the rest is his story to tell, not mine.

In the end, I’m glad I spoke with Wayne because it reminded me of one very important thing: he’d only been my bully once, but he had been my friend both before and after the incident. All these years, I’ve focused only on that to the point where I forgot about this. To think I’ve missed out on the opportunities for friendship with him all these years because I held on to that for so long! (Admittedly, this is something I’m working on.) It’s also made me realize that anyone, even friends, can have a bad day, and they might say things they don’t really mean, and that I wasn’t alone when it came to the bullying at Hamady High.

I hope I was able to match the honor that Wayne displayed; I feel I owe him that. It took a lot of guts for him to apologize publicly, and I have an immense amount of respect for him. It’s too bad the other three bullies mentioned in my first post couldn’t muster up a fraction of the integrity that Wayne Lutz has. I shouldn’t be surprised, though … a bully is a coward, and ignoring my first post was a cowardly way of not owning your shit. So to Mr. Slick, Napoleon, and Senor Caliente, I have this to say, and it’s something I’m sure you’ll recognize:

“This isn’t over ’til I say it is.”

J.P. Ribner’s experiences with bullies and the violence they cause has led to the creation of his three novels: Legacy of the Bear, Prophecy of the Bear, and World So Dark.