Thank you for my sneakers
Silence, survival, and an ounce of kindness that outshone it all.
I have a condition called Peutz-Jeghers Syndrome. It causes intussusception, increased and frequent polyp growth, a heightened risk of cancer, and a lower-than-average life expectancy.
It is rare, often causing misdiagnosis or no diagnosis at all. A telltale sign is a dark pigmentation that appears on your lips and the interior lining of your mouth, or oral mucosa if you prefer to get technical about it.
It is easy to be sensitive about this, especially when you’re a kid.
At some point grade/middle school, I had a teacher who made fun of me for this. She would say that it looked like a pen exploded inside my mouth. I nervously chewed pens all the time; so, I could see where she made the connection. Still, making fun of a kid for the way he looks? That’s just wrong.
South Philly was not a great place to grow up, at least not for me. One of many reasons why was because I got beat up all the time. To add insult to literal injury, the person I considered to be a friend used to stir the pot to get people to fight me. I think I knew it at the time but sense of self-worth was low enough that I never defended myself against the accusations or in the fight itself.
The school bully used to grab me by my Catholic school tie and pull me. He called me blue, after the color of the pigmentation on my lips and acted like I was his pet dog.
That should put my internal and external sense of value in perspective.
There were plenty of broken homes in my neighborhood. His was one of them. So, I told myself that I felt bad for him as the tie continued to tighten against the back of my neck.
This poor kid. His parents were divorced. His dad bought him anything he wanted to make up for his absenteeism. What a sad life.
I could convince myself of these things. Maybe it wasn’t Stockholm Syndrome. Maybe it was just survival, locking yourself deep inside your own mind, waiting out the abuse that was my daily walk home from school.
As you can imagine, this impacted my anxiety, depression, and fear of social situations. Still, I tried to put myself out there in a place where I knew I didn’t belong.
The kids in South Philly hung out on street corners. A bulk of the kids from my school hung out on 16th and Shunk, the intersection in front of the school. 1S6 is what they called it. When that was tagged somewhere, they drew that sharp-angled outline of the letter S in between the numbers. I bet you know exactly what it looks like.
My heart raced every time I went there. I stood outside of every circle and on the fringe of any conversation, trying to convince myself to get involved. Maybe if they got to know me, they’d like me. That never happened.
One night, a group of kids from another school and street corner showed up. They were looking for someone who wasn’t there. I do not recall who it was or why they wanted him, just that there was bad blood. I could not tell you what they look like, or what conversation the rivaling groups had.
As the sides separated, the 1S6 kids began to look at me as the other crew ran in my direction. I don’t know if my fellow classmates told these kids I was the person in question or had some sort important affiliation to him. Whatever it was, it was enough to convince them to jump me.
I don’t remember the fight, just the feeling of loneliness as it happened. I guess it’s inevitable to feel that way when you’re attacked by a bunch of people while the people you knew since first grade watched from a safe distance.
They stole my sneakers, teal Fila high tops or some other style of shoe that recently went out of fashion. The intention likely was to throw them over a telephone wire over the street as some sort of unmarked but humiliating sign. The shoeless six-block walk home over cracked sidewalks and the remnants of smashed bottles of malt liquor was miserable. The blood mixed with the tears. Adult neighbors sitting out on their stoop did nothing to intervene or make sure I was okay.
I wiped off my face and walked in the front door of my house. I thought that, somehow, my parents would not ask about this. Or maybe I just hoped it.
My Mom was in the kitchen with her friend Angela drinking espresso. My Nonna was standing over the stove making another pot. She jumped up when she saw me and wanted to know who did this to me.
The saddest part of all this may be that I protected those kids. I never gave a name, location, or reason. I didn’t want them to get in trouble. I never gave anyone up. Ever.
Later on that night, the doorbell rang. From my room, I heard my mom answer the door and two kids speaking. They brought my shoes back. It was the nicest thing anyone from that godforsaken school ever did for me.
I went to bed happy that night.