Growing up in the tough streets of Detroit, I managed to avoid fighting, which was a feat in itself. It wasn’t because I was physically imposing or could talk my way out of trouble — quite the opposite. In my early years, I was small for my age and was surrounded by the ethos of peace, love, and a hippie mentality. "All You Need is Love" and "Peace Train" were more than just songs; they were anthems of the life I embraced.
I navigated life like this until peer pressure became too powerful to ignore. It was in the fourth grade when I first felt its pull. Duane, the class nerd, became my target, not because he had done anything to me personally, but because picking on him earned me a momentary flicker of acceptance from the "cool" kids. Duane, with his briefcase, his awkwardness, and his tendency to tattle, was an easy mark. And while I didn’t hate him, the pressure to fit in overrode the little voice that told me what I was going to do was wrong. So, one morning, I knocked his briefcase to the ground, and his papers scattered in the wind like so many discarded fragments of dignity. The laughter of my classmates may have been validation, but it was hollow. I knew even then that it wasn’t who I was.
In an ironic twist that life often throws, I found myself on the receiving end of similar treatment several years later. High school was a different beast, much larger and more intimidating than elementary school. By ninth grade, the same vertical challenge that had defined my earlier years still left me smaller than most, more vulnerable. And that’s when it happened — when six gang members from another school cornered me in the bathroom during Algebra class.
I was trapped, a short freshman alone, and completely outnumbered. Fear gripped me as the leader demanded my money. When I fumbled to pull out my crumpled dollar, he slapped me. It wasn’t the slap that hurt the most, but the humiliation that followed. At that moment, I felt powerless, unable to defend myself, not out of choice, but out of paralysis. I was frozen, just like Duane had probably been on that walk to school years ago.
After the incident and the gang left, I stood alone in the bathroom, not just feeling fear, but something far more complicated. Humiliation, guilt, and anger mixed into a confusing brew of emotions. Why didn’t I fight back? Why didn’t I stand up for myself? These questions gnawed at me as I walked back to class, face hot with shame, but without a word to anyone.
Years later, when I reflected on those two moments in my life, the connection became clear. Life had given me a lesson. What I had done to Duane, no matter how trivial it might have seemed at the time, had come full circle. I wasn’t just the kid who got slapped for his lunch money — I was also the kid who had once knocked a kid's briefcase to the ground to impress others.
The lesson stuck. I may not carry a briefcase, but I learned that everyone, in their way, carries something. Maybe it’s a briefcase full of papers, or maybe it’s something less visible, like vulnerability or pride. Either way, I came to realize that taking advantage of someone’s weakness doesn’t make you stronger. And now, as an adult, I'm more careful, more considerate of those carrying their burdens, no matter how they might appear on the outside.
The streets of Detroit had taught me one thing: while the world might tell you to harden yourself, there’s strength in choosing not to. And sometimes, the hardest thing to do is to be kind in a world that values toughness.