My Background--the Neighborhood

My youth minister once told Tim and I we were the most “normal” homeschooled kids he knew. He didn't know the meaning of the words “politically correct." For that matter, I think he enjoyed making waves with offensive stereotypes like that. But his comment was rooted in the fact that homeschool families are notorious for over-protection. Not all, but many of them live in the country and go to very small churches, where it's difficult for their kids to find friends the same age. The homeschoolers my youth minister complained about were head-smart, but they didn't have real-life experiences. What he meant by his comment was that my brother and I, in contrast, didn't lack exposure to the real world. And, if that's true—if there was anything “normal” about us—I credit the time we spent getting in trouble with our hoodlum, public-school buddies.

In my neighborhood--the downtown area in a city of 50,000 people--kids we had never seen before would show up on their bikes, play our games for a few weeks, and then never be heard from again. A boy named Clinton—who said his different-colored eyes came from the time a policeman threw him down the stairs—never answered questions about where he lived. But, we still played football with him and listened to his dirty jokes until he just stopped coming around. Another kid, a girl with a bowl-cut whose name escapes me, rode up one day with a huge gash on her leg, blood trickling down and collecting in her sock. I tried to look her in the eyes while she said something about the Icecream Man, but I finally asked if she needed a band-aid. “Huh? For this?” And she wiped the blood off with a leaf. I was deeply impressed by her strength and would have become a follower if she had shown up more than a couple times.

But there were seven of us not allowed to cross Taylor Street who formed a core-group for years. Three sets of siblings lived on the same block: my brother and I, Calvin and Wesley, and Drake and Ian, plus, when Cory visited his grandmother, he joined the clique. We all became friends the year the school system put the new bus stop in front of my house. Tim and I liked to sit on the corner after school and wait for the “normal” kids to come back. For the first few days, they stared at us suspiciously as they jumped out of the bus and headed home, but eventually, one of them asked the burning question:
“Why don't you go to school?”
“We do,” I explained. “Our mom teaches us at home.”
“Do you get to wear your pajamas?”
“Sometimes.”(long pause)
“Wanna play football?”

From then on, we did virtually everything together, especially when it came to defending our “property”—the Kingdom that spanned our entire block, from Taylor to Mulberry St. and from Leeds to Lindsay. It was a small territory, but the alleys formed a perfect X in the middle, making it a prime piece of land we felt was prone to attacks. We constantly rehearsed battle tactics using hand-drawn maps, code names, and whatever weapon-like objects we found in garages and figured nobody would miss. If a member of our army stood on each corner of the block and a fifth person parked a bike on the manhole cover where the alleys crossed, the signal from our walkie-talkies reached everybody.

Nobody stepped foot on our soil without our knowledge, and one of two things happened when a stranger crossed that line.Sometimes, as in the case with Clinton and the short-haired girl, we would invite the newcomer to join our ranks and hand him or her a walkie-talkie. However, some undefinable process offered other invaders worse luck. Usually, we would discover that the unknown kid was a notorious trouble-maker in another neighborhood, known for stealing bikes and smashing pumpkins. But even if he or she had a clean record, Calvin, the oldest among us, had the power to label him or her “stupid,” which was an equally good reason for war.
“Get off our property!” one of us would bellow.
“Make me!” This was the standard reply, but, fortunately, Wesley would be ready for it:
“You can't stay here.”
“Can, too. I got rights.” If the kid had been around the neighborhood awhile, he may even use the word “constitution” in his retort. We respected that kind of knowledge, but we had a comeback for it as well.
“Well you're a loser, loser, double loser, as if, whatever, get the picture, duh...”
This was my stone to throw because I was best at memorizing the really cutting insults.
“You are times ten!”
At this point, I may have handed over the reigns to my apprentice, Drake, for the classic: “You're a super-sonic-idiotic-brain-disconnected-ding-dong-double-decker-dork.” But, if we got this far in the battle, we knew we had a worthy opponent. Therefore, Calvin may have broken out the big guns:
“If you don't leave, I'll go get my dad.”
All of us from the block knew that Calvin and Wesley's mom actually was much scarier than their dad. But, historically, kids from other neighborhoods used their dad's names to settle fights. This was a strategic move on Calvin's part.
“Whatever, you're stupid,” the enemy would say as he turned to leave. And all of us would throw our remaining assaults at his retreating back.
“Yeah, and don't come back!”
“Maybe Mommy will make you feel better!” etc.

When we grew tired of scouting and defending, the block allowed for great games of tag, and we turned its ragged sidewalks into bike ramps. Also, if we were lucky, our parents would give us permission to take the alleys past Lindsay Street to Village Pantry, where we bought our candy cigarettes. (Since then, ethically-concerned adults have insisted they be renamed “candy stix,” but I trust that kids still know how to use them.) Though glass-littered and full of potholes, the neighborhood was a dream playground, and we never missed the chance to meet in it every day after school. We'd ride, pretend, and fight for hours until the streetlights came on, or until Mom whistled for us—a sound that could be heard well outside the Kingdom.

I haven't seen any of them in years. A small civil war erupted after my brother broke a tree branch over Wesley's back, but I don't think that alone ended our adventures. A short time after that, there was a fire in Calvin and Wesley's house which killed their mother. Tim and I were home, as usual, when we heard the sirens stop very close. We saw Calvin and Wesley's bus pull up right next to the ambulance...but we didn't know what to say to the boys, so we didn't say anything ever again. And even though their dad repaired the house, we just never repaired the group.

Still, what we had was special. And whether or not it made me “normal,” there's no question my childhood friends helped shape who I am. Something about skinned knees and bare feet on asphalt make a kid grow up right. A little trouble and some candy cigarettes are good for the soul. The seven of us weren't meant to chase enemies off our land forever—it was bound to end at some point. But every time I see kids riding bikes, I smile and wonder which one delivers the best insults or bleeds without crying. It's comforting to know there's a new generation out in the neighborhood, getting a proper education.