GranolaBox

When I teach my students about the Monroe Doctrine I tell them this story from my childhood. As with any good fable some of the details are embellished to protect and/or immortalize the innocent.

For those who weren’t paying attention that day in American History class, the Monroe Doctrine was President James Monroe’s assertion in 1823 that an attack on any country in the Western Hemisphere would be viewed as an attack on US. James Monroe was either being paranoid about the encroachment of European monarchies, or protecting Latin America until such time as the US was able to realize its own territorial ambitions.

In 1906, Teddy Roosevelt, consistent with his “speak softly and carry a big stick” philosophy, added the Roosevelt Corollary to the Monroe Doctrine. Now in a position to control Latin America through military force, he changed the message to imply that if anyone was to attack a country in the Western Hemisphere, it would be US.

My father was a career United States Army man, and so I spent the first ten years of my life on Army bases and going to Department of Defense schools. These were NOT military schools, but since they, and I were in a military atmosphere, they led me to have a very charmed upbringing.

I consider spending my formative years on military bases a blessing. At that time the children of soldiers were much better behaved than those of civilians. It’s not like we marched around and saluted our parents and older siblings, but there was a certain level of discipline our fathers had imbued in us almost naturally. We knew that if we messed up in one way or another, we were going to have to deal with our dads, men who were trained to do grievous bodily harm to others.

Thus it was that I spent the first ten years of my life never having been seriously harmed by other kids. Part of it was the military discipline and part it may have been, in retrospect, the fact that my father was the Command Sergeant Major, which meant that all the enlisted men on the base had to ultimately answer to my Dad for their transgressions.

I was ten when my father retired from the Army and we moved to a small town in Northern New York State’s Adirondack Mountains. Saranac Lake, a picturesque small town would hardly seem to an outsider like a breeding ground for degradation and vice, but relative to my previously sheltered upbringing, it was an eye opening experience.

I actually experienced a degree of culture shock going from the military to civilian environments. The neighborhood kids that I played with used swear words I never knew existed, some of them detailing bodily functions and acts that challenged all my previously held assumptions about human physiology. They talked back to their mothers and fathers almost with impunity. It was a strange new world.

To help my assimilation into civilian life, my parents encouraged me to sign up for Cub Scouts. I had been involved in Cub Scouts in military life, and it was a great idea on my parent’s part to help me bridge the gap between the cultures. I signed up with the troop from my church, met my Den Father, and had even mentally mapped out the ½ mile route to his house in preparation for my first meeting with my barbarian brethren.

I rebuked my parents’ offer of a ride to the meeting. I was, after all, an intrepid cub scout. I went out my back door, cut across the back yard and was on my way.

I’d gotten about a hundred yards down James Street when a teenage boy jumped out onto the street from behind some bushes. He was about six feet tall, although from my perspective it seemed more like eight feet. He had long, greasy hair, horrible acne, and Billy-goat hairs cropping out from amongst the dense growth of peach fuzz on his grizzly visage.

He cut a frightening figure. I swerved to the other side of the street to avoid him, but he moved with me, blocking my way. My heart started to pound. Finally he spoke.

“Hey kid…. You new to the neighborhood?” he asked in his most intimidating bully voice.

“Yes” I replied meekly.

“You been initiated yet?” he asked slyly.

“No” I replied, not at all sure of the implications.

“Good” he said triumphantly, “I’m gonna initiate ya”

With that, he put me in a headlock and gave me a few knuckles to the head. I started to panic, my heart jumping into my throat. Having warmed up with the noogies, my assailant then let fly with a crushing blow to my stomach that knocked the wind out of me.

It was a tragic convergence of firsts. I’d never REALLY been punched in the stomach before, and never had the wind knocked out of me. To compound matters, I was in the process of starting to cry, and a cry of this magnitude required a level of serious oxygen my recently punched stomach couldn’t provide. It’s a wonder I didn’t implode.

By sheer force of will and unprecedented levels of adrenaline, I managed to wriggle out of the psycho boy’s grasp and make a wild hundred yard dash to the safety of my back porch. Had it been timed, I might have broken a world’s record for the hundred yard dash, and certainly shattered whatever previous record there was for pudgy little ten year old boys.

My older brother Dan was sitting on the back porch when I arrived. He knew something was wrong since I was simultaneously crying and gasping for air. Somehow, through the crying, I blurted out to him what had happened. Far from giving me a big brotherly hug to alleviate my terror, he leapt skyward raising his fist in exaltation.

This was an important first for Dan as well. Having grown up in our idyllic environment, he, being 7 years my elder, had never had the opportunity to beat up a bully on my behalf. It went without saying on Army bases that if you messed with someone’s little brother, it was considered the same as an attack on your own person. You mess with my little brother; you mess with ME.

As Dan began performing the regimen of calisthenics necessary for pulverizing the person who had so traumatized his little brother, my heart leapt at the vision of the bully begging for mercy as my brother’s mighty blows rained down on his zit-ridden face. Then in a bizarre moment of clarity I had a horrible thought; if the young man that attacked me was sick enough to beat up a little shrimp like me, might he pull a knife or something on my brother?

Another lump rose in my throat and I knew I’d have to bring this to a higher power – my Dad. Dad had the day off and was working in the house at the time. Crying again, I found my father and blurted out the whole ugly story. He figured out enough of what transpired to stop my brother from executing his mission of fraternal retribution.

After I calmed down again, Dad escorted me to what appeared to be the Bully’s house on James Street. Psycho Boy’s father answered the door, and as soon as he saw me behind my father, he ran cowering to a corner, frantically pleading innocence even before being accused; a true sign of guilt. He and my Dad had a good conversation, shook hands and parted ways; my father confident that Psycho Boy’s father would mete out the appropriate consequence.

An hour or so later, I lay on my bed, finally calmed after the evening’s trauma. My brother burst through the door, jumped on my bed, put me in a hold and started lightly pummeling me, demanding to know why I spilled the beans to Dad thus ruining his long-awaited chance for glory.

In this sweeping gesture my brother made two things known to the bullies of the civilian world. First; if you messed with his little brother, you would be messing with him. Furthermore; if anyone WAS going to mess with his little brother, it would, by right, be him.

Technorati Tags: Monroe Doctrine, American History, James Monroe, Teddy Roosevelt, Roosevelt Corollary, United States Army, Department of Defense, Adirondack Mountains, Saranac Lake, Cub Scouts

Filed under: Teaching, History on March 20th, 2007