River Blows

There is a high school principal in Nashville that no longer has a job because the kids there constantly fight. Gang fighting, random jumpings, bus beatings. This has been happening all year long, but two weeks ago students were arrested every single day for fighting on school property. MANY students. One day it was like 18.

I am well-informed about the situation because one of the women I like at work has two teenaged daughters who attend school there, so I’ve been paying close attention to the story, which led me to think about the fighting that occured at my own high school.

The situation was very different for me. The public high school my friend’s kids go to is urban and is very racially diverse. My public high school was very rural, yet only a 30 minute drive away fom the school in Nashville. I’d say that less than 2% of the student body at my high school belonged to a minority race. White, rebel flag-waving, tobacco chewing people they were. Well, a lot of them, anyway. Despite the nearly all-Caucasian population, we had serious racial tensions in our school. The few black students at my school felt so threatened by the institutional, as well as intentional and direct racism they experiences that there were a few skirmishes. That involved guns. After that any racially “motivated” clothing or paraphanelia of any kind was not permitted on school grounds. Believe it or not, after that ,things died down.

No, most of the fighting at my school was about other things. It was about boys and girls and bad deals and break-ups. About getting cheated. The fights I happened to witness were passionate, and everyone knew the participants history with one another. For instance, I was not surprised to see Marcia Sloan* and Brooke Binkley* straight up BOXING each other in the hallway during 4th period from my seat in AP English. Brooke fucked Marcia’s boyfriend in the theatre light loft, the one with the winding staircase, and most of the days when Marica was working. I watched them land punch after punch on purpling cheeks and ears, but didn’t say anything to anyone. I didn’t feel motivated to interfere, and I couldn’t interrupt class I was 14 at the time, I was probably afraid of what people would think if I spoke up. That fight was broken up within 2-3 minutes by the petite, 50-something sophomore English teacher who got herself punched in the face in the process. The punch was on purpose. Marcia got expelled for that one.

But the most legendary fights were the ones that were planned in advance. Knowing a fight on school grounds would lead to expulsion or be broken up within seconds, those with a taste for blood would challenge the person they intended to fight to do so at a later date. And always at the Sycamore Rec.

The Sycamore Rec is formally called the Sycamore Recreation Center which is a few picnic tables and swing here or there alongside the Cumberland River in Cheatham County. I won’t deny it is beautiful, but the Sycamore Rec is what I now call really, really redneck people who get all aggressive and fight in public. For instance, “Look at those two about to fight over there, all puffing their chests out. He’s about to go Sycamore Rec on that guy.” Also, I attribute the adjective to a person. “That girl got kicked out of school for fighting. She is so Sycamore Rec.”

Planning at fight at the Sycamore Rec was all so West Side Story. Usually, if it was a girl fight, some other girl would be all, “Hey Mandy wants to fight you. Meet her at the Sycamore Rec at 5 tonight.” Then the phone lines in Ashland City would blow up and people would gather down on the river banks for a supper time beat down, choosing sides and lining up accordingly.

I only went to one fight ever at the Sycamore Rec. It would be the last fight I ever saw. (Excluding Fight Club, though I turned my head a bit, I admit.) But I typically detest boxing and will avoid watching fights at all costs. If I think someone is going to fight at a bar I freak out and leave. And it’s because of that fight I saw that time at the Sycamore Rec.

I was a sophomore, a naive cheerleader who spent my time trying to backhandspring and ace every test and please everyone I knew. It was a fall afternoon around 3 p.m. and I was running before cheerleading practice. One mile was two laps around the school if I remember correctly. I was running, probably going over cheers in my head when the captain Lesha* came running out of the dressing room door up to a group of us yelling, “There is a fight at the Rec. Let’s go.”

Our cheerleading coach recently quit and was replaced by a middle school teacher who worked across town. We ran our required mile before practice while the new coach drove to meet us at 1 Cub Circle. The captain seemed to think we had time to squeeze in a little fisticuffs before she got there, so I went along. I didn’t want to see a fight, but I certainly didn’t want to keep running. Lesha drove us to the Rec in her sock feet.

She drove a teal convertible and we squealed down every twist and turn, the river air whipping through our ponytails. AC/DC played on the tape deck. I sat up front, hating the music and feeling superior for it. I felt like an adult that day. Before I knew it Lesha whipped into the parking spot near a mass of about fifty people. The fighting had already begun. I heard grunting from within the center of the circle of people, but mostlyIi heard shouting. After just a moment we put our climbing skills to work and I stood on the tallest cheerleaders’ shoulders. What I saw after that revloted me like little else I’ve ever seen.

This fight must have been going on for minutes. By the time I laid eyes on the spectacle the battle was nearly over. It should have been over long ago. A short but powerful football player was kicking a bloody kid lying on the ground. His nose was clearly splintered all over his red-covered face. The kid was crying and begging him to stop, but the guy kicking him was still so enraged, so out of control that he didn’t stop. He wouldn’t stop. He got onto his knees to punch the downed boy in the head, and the sickening sound of fist hitting swollen skull and cheekbones is something I will never be able to shake. It was ruthless, a pulverizing that no one stopped. They just watched and cheered. The football player’s face was so demonic, so crazed I think everyone was scared to step in. It was a sick, evil thing I saw that day and it scarred me.

I can’t watch fights. Organized fighting like in hockey or boxing repulses me. All because of that awful day at the Sycamore Rec.

I have no idea why that kid suffered such a beating that afternoon or what happened to him after that. I bet he might have a kind of fucked up nose.

*Names changed to protect these women who probably have kids and jobs that require suits and people to google their names. You know how it is.