high | Jefferson Davis

Over the past few months, I’ve heard a lot of anti bully talk and slogans. I don’t like bullies any more than the next person, but if it were not for the bullies in my past, I wouldn’t be the person I am today. I might be timider or a total jerk. Only God knows what I would have become if I hadn’t of stood up for myself in high school after years of torment.

Everyone thinks that because I went to private school, I had it made and didn’t have to contend with such things as bullies, drugs, and threats. Nothing could be further from the truth. When I finished high school, I was five feet tall. I was a small lad that weighed a total of 100 lbs. soaking wet. At my school, we had around 30 kids in each grade. It was a small school that I loved. However, when I was a sophomore, the principal started letting kids that had been kicked out of public school, attend our school. So, all the ingrates whose families could afford private school, came to our school. That’s when things started to change.

We had this one tall heavy set fella at our school that took joy out of picking little shites like me up and throwing us across a room. He also enjoyed stuffing us into lockers and pulling our boxers up to our heads. One day after lunch, I caught him strangling a friend for money. I yelled for him to stop. A few seconds later, a teacher came around the corner and he stopped. He pointed at me, and said, “I’m going to get you, Davis, after school”.

Frankly, I was terrified. I managed to skip by him, when my ride pulled up. What he said nagged at me all weekend. I was boxing with my father that Sunday and almost knocked him off of a three story deck. I was so nervous Monday morning that I begged my mother to let me stay home. I ended up going to school that morning, regardless of the consequences.

Somehow, I managed to sneak by him all day. The clan of nerds that I was the leader of brought lunch to my hideout in the janitors closet. The rest of the day dragged on. One teacher asked me what was wrong, because I was shaking so bad that she could barely read my writing. I wanted to tell her, but I didn’t.

After the final bell rang, I decided to take the back exit that no one ever used to access the area where parents picked up their kids. As I furiously ran around the corner towards the exit, a foot tripped me, and I went sliding into the lockers. Before I could turn around, big boy and his cronies were picking me up like a feather. I yelled for help, but to no avail. My eyes darted back and forth searching for anyone to help, but only the girlfriends were there to watch me get beat senseless.

He grabbed me by the collar of my shirt and started picking me up. It wasn’t that I was necessarily scared of him, it had more to do with the threat and the time that had passed thinking about it. As he lifted me off the ground, I grew a spine and kicked his knee in as hard as I could. I had legs of steel back then and still do. We both fell to the frigid January ground and he started screaming. The next thing I knew a minute had passed and I was still beating him senseless. The principle came and after a time of pacing back and forth in the principles office, I explained what happened. With a tearful, girly, cry, he said that he was just going to scare me.

We became somewhat friends. The last thing I heard about him was that he was in jail for attempted theft of an ATM. I saw him about five years ago. He was still going on about me busting his kneecap. That may have been the first time I had to stand up for myself outside of the home, but definitely not the last. Every time a new student would enter our school with an attitude, they’d test the dominate little shite, me. But, thanks to big boy, they’d be fully warned ahead of time.

Ever since I got into that fight in 2007, I’ve not had to be in another. I don’t like to fight. I’ll do just about anything to avoid it, but sometimes it is a necessity. I realise that school is a lot different these days, but the basic rules still apply. Take down the biggest one and the rest will flee. Mind you, I’m not encouraging physical altercations, but you’ve got to stand up for yourself and others at some point.

P.S.: I’ll be back Christmas Day with an inspirational post, I hope.

Yesterday, I went with the Art Club down to the High Museum in Atlanta, Georgia. On the way down, I sat in the window seat on the bus and a pretentious – egotist bloke sat beside me. He blabbered on about different pieces we were going to be observing and buttered up one of the instructors in the seat directly in front of us, while I mutely sat and read the New Yorker. It was a pleasant trip filled with laughter.

After we arrived, all of us entered the Louvre section of the museum. We were all captivated and awe struck by “The Tiber” and other gorgeous sculptures and pieces from France, Roma, Greece, Egypt, Pompeii, Herculaneum, and Babylon. Chills rained down my back, while gazing at clay tablets over four thousand years old. I pondered about the people that crafted the pieces and the lives they lived.

The “Winged Victory of Samothrace” bewitched my spirit. The implied motion – how the fabric of the garment flows over the body of Nike, the goddess of Victory. And, most importantly, the story behind the sculpture. Most of the students put on headphones, which told them about each sculpture, piece, or painting, but I chose to read the plaques and interpret everything in my own way. That is what I love the most about art and literary works. We can each interpret a novel or a painting differently.

Another sculpture that called to me was “Crouching Aphrodite”, from the Roman Imperial period. I kneeled down beside it and glared into her face – a countenance weighed with thought. Sculptures from the Hellenistic period have always captured my imagination, while paintings from the Romanesque era enchant my intellect. Of course, I love all art, regardless of when it was created. However, pop art unnerves me a bit.

Go boil some water for a cuppa because this is long, or you can enjoy the pictures below. I have to write a paper about my visit, so this is good practice…

After exiting the Louvre hall, we entered the contemporary hall. Hanging on the first wall, adjacent to the entrance, were a few silhouette images – black cutouts against a white background – in a row, by Kara Walker. Some of her drawings are quite compelling, but her cutouts are an atrocity. She depicts scenes of slaves in the pre civil war south, being brutalised by their respective owners. She shows white men raping slaves (young men and women) and white women pillaging the wombs of female slaves. She does this to push society’s buttons. That is how she has made a name for herself! It’s not by the quality or composition of the artwork, but the horror it projects. Look, every society at one point, has been enslaved by a more powerful civilisation, so I say, get over it! Did I say I didn’t like her?

Anyway, back to the artsy Californian that I sat beside on the bus. Whilst standing in front of Kara Walker’s pieces, he said, “Isn’t she fantastic”, with hyper glee.

“Yes, she is”, I replied, as glared at the horrific scenes.

“I love how she uses these slavery images”, he uttered, while making hand gestures at the particular way she depicted blood gushing.

I don’t like her, but I was trying to hold back my judgements and be nice to the guy. Heck, I might have learned something from him.

“Yeah, there was about an eight page write up about her in the New Yorker two months ago.

He stopped dead in his tracks, dropped his jaw, and enquired, “You…read the New Yorker?”

“Indeed”, I answered, with a laughing smirk.

He stepped back, put his arms to the side, and muttered, “You must have borrowed it from someone, right?”

“I have a subscription to that along with New York Times, New York Review of Books, and Contemporary Poetry Review”, I muttered, as I tried not to laugh.

“You?”

“Tis true”

“….I never would have thought it, just being honest and all”, he mumbled, as he crossed his arms.

“Ehhmm…Yeah, I’m a photographer, aspiring poet, ~~amateur author~~ (I have much to learn), professional skirt chaser, and I dab in watercolours and pastels from time to time”, while glinting at the young female art student beside me.

He fell back on his heels, and cried, “Wow, that is totally cool…I never would have thunk it…Dude, I’m like…totally blown away. Do you have any of your poetry with you or some photographs?”

There’s no need to go any further into the discussion. He asked if I did architecture, nature, surreal, abstract, impressionistic, or portraits. I gave him my flickr address and the blog address. So, if you are reading this, sir, I’m not trying to imply that you are an idiot or a jerk, just a Californian. Nah, most Californians are cool. Dude is smart. He went to the Art Institute of Chicago. We are all taught at an early age how to view the world, but it is up to us as adults to be open minded and nonjudgmental.

I’ll pick up with part two of The High Museum in a day or two. I have a lot of reading to do.

Kewl…862 words in thirty minutes of casual maundering.

P.S.: The last image is a one of my abstract paintings contorted in photoshop.