Sophomore year in high school.
The day before spring vacation, I was involved in an intense fist fight with a guy I hated (and still do). Did not realize it, but I took a hard shot to the right eye.
But I did not know that right away.
Because my eye looked fine, for awhile.
The next day I was in the back seat of my Dad’s Impala with my little brother, Mom and Dad up front, on our way to Washington, DC.
And my right eye slowly turned into a full Joe Palooka sized black eye. At first, Mom looked at me, said nothing, looked at me again, and asked what happened to my eye.
Because there was nothing worse than your parents getting involved in your personal life, I told Mom that nothing happened.
Dad looked back at me in the rear view mirror.
“He got into a fight.”
“Dad, really, I didn’t. I have no idea what happened”, I told him.
Because black eyes take a few days to completely ripen, my eye chose the White House tour to reach full maturity. And because Dad took pictures of us doing EVERYTHING, the eye was captured a zillion times throughout our nation’s capital.
Now, the reason why I did not admit to the fistfight was because telling your parents about catastrophic events was risky. There was at least a fifty percent chance that telling them about stuff could actually make things worse, especially with Mom. I lived by this belief from the time I was very young.
As a matter of fact, as an adult in my forties, I was clearly told by my Father that I was never to tell my mother about anything important- doing so only brought intense pressure upon him, and he HATED that.
As for the guy I had the fight with, he was one of three people I went to school with that I hated (the other two recently passed away ((such a shame)). I am praying that he joins the other two creeps on the highway to hell.
Hey, it’s fifty years, I will forgive him eventually.