When I drop my nephews off at school,
Or when I’d be near or passing by my old school,
I’d remember the weird things I used to do.

I’m not saying I didn’t hit anyone, I mean I had to!
But when I’d get hit, I had to know why I was getting hit.
And I had to know who the person who was hitting me was.
What were his strengths? His weak points?

I would then find people who were bigger than the both of us,
And find the thing that appealed to them or find out what they loved.
If they loved cigarettes or sandwiches, especially rumi cheese or eggs and pastrami,
Stuff they couldn’t get at home, I would offer these things to them.

I didn’t get my hands dirty.
Instead I’d make someone else beat up the person who hit me bad.
It was thuggish business.
They’d tell me to tell them when to stop.
I didn’t do that, of course.
I’d leave the offender getting beaten up behind,
And never knew what happened to them.
I remained like that until high school was over.

When I entered university, I thought to myself,
“Why should I get someone else to beat up people for me?
Why don’t I just beat them up with my own hands?”
I tried hitting someone myself.
I realised that because I was so angry at him,
His features were practically unrecognizable when I finished with him.
My professors knew that I was a good and kind person,
And that, perhaps, worked in my favor.
It kept me from being held accountable for beating up the people who hurt me.

What I learned at home is one thing, and what I learned on the streets is another.
What I did at school,
I try not to do anymore.
It’s the easiest thing in the world to pay someone a couple of pounds to beat someone up or walk behind me to protect me.