Stabbed in woodshop

The Race, The Pencil, and The Lesson

By the time I hit seventh grade, I had a solid grasp of how my city was divided. Central Avenue was the line—Black on one side, White on the other. Grand Avenue drew another line, separating Mexicans from Whites. Our school was a mix of all three, about a third each.

I was pretty athletic—not the best at anything, but good enough. It was track season in PE, and we were pairing off for the 100-yard dash. I got matched with a new guy, fresh from LA. As we stepped up to the starting line, he leaned in and said, “Better let me win.”

I nodded. “OK.”

But I had no intention of losing.

I had the third-fastest time in the school, and I won. That was the end of it—for me, at least.

The next period was woodshop. Mr. Fritchy was our teacher, and if there was a ranking for hardest swats in school, he held the title. The principal was second. I had firsthand experience with most of them, but that’s another story.

The new guy—let’s just call him that since I can’t remember his name—was waiting for Mr. Fritchy to assign him a seat. He ended up at the table behind mine, back to back with me. I had already forgotten about PE, but apparently, he hadn’t.

Halfway through class, I felt something press between my shoulder blades. Sharp. A knife? I froze. It traced down my back, slicing through my tanker jacket. Tanker jackets were the thing back then, and I was proud of mine. Still, I didn’t move.

Then he stabbed me.

A sharp jab in my left shoulder. Not a knife—a pencil.

I didn’t react. Didn’t flinch. I wasn’t about to risk a swat or a suspension for fighting.

When class ended, I let the New Guy walk out ahead of me. As soon as we stepped through the door, I grabbed his shoulder, spun him around, and threw a punch. He went down.

Before I could see where he landed, my friend Simeal wrapped an arm around my neck and drove a fist into my stomach. “Don’t mess with my blood,” he said.

And that’s when I really started to understand what prejudice was.

The back gate to the school was right behind the woodshop, and across the street was a church where a handful of us would sneak off to smoke at lunch—whoever had cigarettes. Simeal was one of us. We’d stand there, puffing away, cracking jokes like nothing had happened.

But I knew something had.

Would you love to hear more of these childhood misadventures?