I’m a Lover, Not a Fighter

Not sure why, but driving back from Marion, I started telling this story about how, when I was a kid, my stepdad taught me how to handle bullies.

“If anyone ever starts to push you around or bully you, just double up your fist like this,” he told me, making a fist, “and punch them right in the nose. They won’t even expect it, and they’ll never pick on you again.”

Catty-corner from our house lived the Shasteens. They sold insurance (I think), and on weekends, the dad played music along with his brother, sister and parents at a place called the Okaw Opry in Findlay, Illinois. Our parents went on an Okaw Opry tangent one winter and hauled us up there, every Saturday night, to see their shows.

Sometimes, the Opry would get some surprisingly big names, country music-wise, considering the town itself had a grand total of about 150 residents. We saw Ronnie Milsap and Barbara Mandrell up there, as well as various other musicians.

(Still, I remember being bored OUT OF MY MIND on most occasions.)

The lead singer was Alice Ann Shasteen. She had a daughter named Tira (I think it might’ve been spelled “Tara,” but it was pronounced TY-ruh; hell, I dunno) who used to come to the house catty-corner from ours to visit her cousins.

Tira was a year or two older than I, and I never particularly liked her. She was cute enough but seemed a little mean, like she didn’t really want us around, ever.

At that time, my bicycle meant just about everything to me. Mostly because it was so damn comfortable to ride, but also because it was THE mode of transportation during some very important years (2nd through 5th grade). My bike was teal with high handlebars and a banana seat, and I customized it in various ways over the years: clothes-pinning baseball cards to the spokes to make it sound like a motorcycle when I started collecting baseball cards at age 7 (sadly, the hobby never “took” with me; perhaps I would be a rich girl now!), attaching a huge-ass basket to the front so that I could transport my even huger-ass saxophone case to and from band practice when I was in 5th. Sometime in there, I put an orange flag on the back of my bike, just to attract a little more attention.

One day when Tira was visiting, I rode over to the Shasteens and started talking to her. During our conversation, while I was still sitting on the bike, she started messing with the flag, bending it from one side to the next.

“OK, leave it alone. It’ll break if you keep bending it,” I told her.

She kept bending it, further and further each time.

“Knock it off!”

She persisted ... so I put the kickstand down, walked right up to her and punched her in the nose.

(I didn’t hit her exactly right, of course; I sort of jabbed her with the pinkie side of my fist. Still, it was definitely a punch.)

She put her hands up to her nose, glared at me and walked away.

The flag was bent a little but pretty much intact. I rode home in silence, my heart beating quickly.

Later that night, I told my stepdad about the incident.

“You punched her?” he said, frowning. “You should never start a fight. You should never throw the first punch.”