The Bully And The Latino Nerd

 By Eres Nerd

The middle school day ended.  Mis friends and I walked to the school bus across the dirt field, which in a wetter climate would be covered with grass. It was a hot spring day in the desert. We hurried while discussing cosas importantes along the way. The best way to beat the robot master boss on a particular level of the Mega Man Nintendo game. Were the Dingo Warrior and the Ultimate Warrior the same wrestler?  The latest twist in Verónica Castro’s telenovela on Univision, Rosa Salvaje.  We had to watch it, since there was only one TV in our homes. 

Bus 143 was waiting. We got on. Our seats were the penultimate bench.  Sitting in the back was cool and we thought we were cool, despite being Nerds.  I sat in the middle of the passenger side bench. More kids got on and filled the benches around us.  Duck Tales awaited me when I got home.   While daydreaming about swimming in gold coins, I felt a slap to the back of my cabeza. I was confused. Stunned. Then another slap and riza. As I started to stand up, another slap to the back of my head. I turned seeing my antagonizer’s extend arms withdrawing towards his body while he chuckled with his two friends. They wore oversized sweatshirts and had a shaved heads. I knew the slapper.  He was a bully.  A chaparro who experienced a growth spurt during that spring. He frequently made fun of me and the Nerds during school and on the bus. I would ignore his comments. This time was different. Words had evolved into physical contact. In a few seconds, I was in my first fight. 

Despite my nerdiness, I wasn’t bullied until reaching middle school.  Cliques based upon material items, distinct social groups, or intellectual/athletic prowess were unknown in elementary school.  We were all children of immigrants. We were all Mexicans; the new working class of Los United Estates. Nuestros Moms worked as seamstresses at the jean factories, our apás worked construction building roads and bridges.    This meant money was limited. We were not poor, but an illness or layoff away from being it. Our similar background meant my schoolmates and I dressed alike.  We wore tenis shoes or mary janes from Payless. Jeans were from Wranglers, since they evoked memories of our parents of the rancho left behind in Mexico. The girls had dresses from Mervyn’s and outfits from K-Mart. I wore gray oversized plastic glasses that became thicker with advancing age.  Making fun of someone for how they dressed, talked, or liked was making fun of yourself.  

This changed in middle school.  Our parents were working the same jobs, pero,  kids started dressing with Starter jackets.  Shoes and ropa from the Mall.   Girls were wearing makeup. Some boys became Cholos wearing oversized sweatshirts with Raiders logos and discussing the local gangs.  My change was being classified as esmart and placed in honors classes. I was a Latino Nerd.  Honor classes kids were Nerds. They became my clique by default.  I didn’t mind it.  They liked what I liked.  And we could discuss the homework assignments. Old friends became acquaintances as everyone self-segregated. 

The downside of the Nerd clique was failure to keep up with fashion. What was anonymity in elementary school became a liability in middle school.  Our Payless shoes and Wranglers now attracted attention and classification by the other cliques via snide comments,  avoidance, and aggression.  I didn’t mind the first two.  I had no interest in talking to them.  I had an ambivalent attitude to snide comments because Nerdom gave me an inflated sense of worth.  “I am going somewhere, you are not” mentality, which immature, was my invisible shield against them.  Unfortunately, that shield was ineffective towards physical aggression. 

I told the bully to stop it. He challenged me to make him stop, while he threw another slap to my now bruised cabeza. Being in a fight is raw emotion.  Fists hitting faces.  Time slows.  Your DNA memory takes over recalling an ancestor fighting the Tlaxcalans or being the Turdetani resisting Rome.  I began hitting, not slapping, the bully in the face.  I had the tactical advantage. He was sitting. I was kneeling on the bench.  His growth spurt meant his was stronger, but I had adrenaline and rage.  Still, he managed a few haymakers at me.  In about ten slow seconds it was over.  The bus driver broke up the fight. I had some cuts and bruises.  The bully the same.  The bus driver removed the bully from the bus and reported him. The fight was scored from the viewpoints of the different cliques. I won the fight unanimously according to the Nerds.  Most felt it was a draw. The cholo declared the bully as the winner. What mattered was that I stood up for myself.  I overcame a difficult challenge.  It gave me perspective. A test was manageable compared to being hit in the face. 

The bully was banned from the bus for weeks.  I saw him around the school. He never bothered me again.  Nor anyone else. His name and face faded from my memory.  Recalling these memories, I wonder whether his actions towards me were based upon a difficult home life or teenager hormones. The fight made me a better person and I wish that it had the same impact on him.

Writer, Lawyer, Time-Traveler: Beto Mesta. I am a Latino Nerd living in an American World. Follow him on Twitter: @ElEresNerd