Lets begin by taking you back in time to August 1961. An eleven year old boy stood in the family garden watching his grandfather digging up red potatoes and placing them in an old metal pail. The boy loved his grandfather very much. Their closeness to each other was clearly evident.
The grandfather stopped digging for a moment, looked up into his grandson's dark brown eyes, and said, "If somebody does something wrong - is it wrong?"
The boy looked back into his grandfather's worn eyes and answered quickly, "Its wrong."
The grandfather looked back down at the dirt nodding his head slightly and dug up another clump of potatoes. His aged hands quickly separated the dirt from the potatoes and gently placed the newly dug potatoes in the old metal pail. The grandfather pushed the shovel deep into the dirt with his foot and left it there. He straightened his aged body up slowly, placed his dirty hands on the sides of his old blue jean overalls, and looked at his grandson again, "What if a hundred people do something wrong - is it wrong?"
The boy's eyes were focused on his grandfather, "Its still wrong."
The grandfather continued to stare at the boy, "What if twenty thousand people do something wrong - is it wrong?"
The boy quickly answered, "Wrong is wrong - no matter how many people do it!"
The grandfather smiled at his grandson and grabbed his shovel again. He was pleased with his grandson's answers.
"But it only takes one person to do what is right - the power of one," answered the boy with a big grin on his face. He held up one finger for his grandfather to see.
His grandfather's reaction was one of pride and love.
A week later the boy sat on his old worn out bike with one foot on the rusted metal peddle and the other on the cement sidewalk to balance him, as he gazed down the main street of his small home town. The boy was a sight to see with his old worn out blue jeans and white tee-shirt. Each knee was a tattered maze of worn out threads. He folded up the bottoms of his blue jeans both for looks and a way to keep them out of the spokes of his bicycle wheel. His curly auburn brown hair seemed to flutter in the breeze. From time to time, he would pull back the dark curls away from his eyes and deeply tanned skin.
The boy turned his head slowly to his left and stared at the giant posters in the windows of the theater next to him. He remembered days gone past when his mother would scrounge up 35 cents for him to go to the movies.
He turned his head around to look down the street again. On his right was a small brick building where his mother showed him the possibilities of a whole new world. It was the library.
Next to the library was the music store where people could buy records and listen to music. The owner built two small glassed rooms where a person could play the record and decide if they wanted to buy it.
The boy's dark eyes traveled back across the street to a small restaurant. His mother had taken him there once for a hamburger and a coke, which they divided in half for each of them. It was all the money they had on that day.
He pushed off the sidewalk with his foot and began peddling slowly down the quiet street. It was Sunday afternoon and every store was closed. There were no cars parked in front of the buildings. It was as if everyone had disappeared, which is exactly what happened each and every Sunday in his small home town.
The boy stopped his bike in front of the JC Penny store and looked at the display of clothes in the window for boys and girls about to start school. He just stared without emotion at the new clothes on the mannequins in the window - and then he saw himself in the reflection of the glass. The boy looked down at his worn out clothes for a moment, gently sighed, and continued on his way down the street.
He peddled slightly faster, as the boy went past the town's only gas station next to the court house. Gas was 35 cents per gallon.
The entire ride took him only a few minutes to cover the six blocks.
The boy came to a stop in front of a giant statue at the end of the street. He wasn't sure who it was, but figured the person must have been important. The boy looked back up the street one more time and then turned his head slowly to a large wooden building about a block long on his right next to the train tracks. It was quiet over there now, but he remembered a day when it was filled with people working everywhere. The trains would stop next to the building as men loaded huge boxes of fruit in each car of the train. Some boxes were apples and others were plums. The trains would take the boxes all the way across America and sell the fruit to people on the east coast. Almost every person he knew worked in the building including his own family.
It seemed so strange to see the doors and windows boarded up. The railroad tracks next to the building were empty. Trains no longer sounded their loud horns as they passed through town. The silence was strange and eerie. Sadness seemed to be lurking everywhere. Everyone lost their jobs and most lost everything they owned - just like his parents
The boy turned his bike away from the building and railroad tracks slowly. He peddled the old bike through his neighborhood for the last time.
The boy glanced at the small white church he attended with his mother. His father tried to avoid church as much as possible.
The boy's dark eyes stared at his best friend's house as he passed by. He could see the sun reflecting off the powerful river just behind his friend's house and thought about the times they had spent together exploring the river for hidden treasures. At other times they would just lay on the grassy banks of the river fishing and staring into the blue sky as white fluffy clouds floated by. Often they would imagine creatures and other things hidden in the clouds. Those were fun days.
The boy stopped for a moment and gazed one more time at his best friend's house. He was sure that his friend was watching him out one of the windows trying to hide his tears. The boy began to peddle his bike on down the street, making sure to not look back at his friend's house.
He stopped in front of a small blue house and got off his bike. It was his home. The boy walked the bike slowly over to the side of the house and leaned it against the wall. His dark brown eyes stared at the ground as tears well up inside him. He couldn't believe this was really happening.
His mother walked up to him and placed her arms around him. She held him tight for a moment then the two of them walked side by side to their car in the driveway with his dad inside. His mother opened the passenger door and sat down in the front seat. The boy opened the back door and climbed into the back seat. He could see a deep sadness in his father's eyes. The boy glanced one last time at his house and the old bike leaning against the wall.
The father looked vacantly at their house for a silent moment and then at his wife. He backed the car out of the driveway and turned down the street. The boy's mother and father stared out the windows of the car in silence as they slowly drove down the road.
The boy watched out the back window of their car as his world disappeared behind him. He rested his head on the back seat looking sadly out the window. The boy felt a cold emptiness surrounding him.
The drive to the nearby city was quiet as his parents continued to stare straight ahead out the windows of the car. The boy pressed his tanned cheek against the glass as he watched the farms floating by his eyes. It wasn't long before rows and rows of houses began to pop up beside the edges of the road. They were entering the outskirts of the city.
Thirty minutes later the car came to a stop in front of an older house. The boy sat in the car just staring at it. He tried to swallow the lump in his throat, but it stayed there.
The door beside him opened slowly. "Come on," said his mother calmly, "lets go inside."
The boy placed his feet outside the car on the roadside curb and stood up. His dark eyes stared at the house without blinking. Everything about the house looked worn out and needing repair. The paint on the outside of the house had blistered here and there exposing the last paint job. One of the windows was cracked. The screen door sat beside the front door broken.
His eyes glanced at the house on the left and then at the one on the right. Each of them were older, but very well cared for.
The boy looked back at his yard. The grass had not been watered or mowed in many weeks and looked like it was dying. His eyes looked intently for a moment down the side of the house. The bushes were dark and foreboding. He hoped his bedroom wasn't on that side.
A moment later, he heard a window opening somewhere in the bushes. His eyes grew larger as a hand pushed a couple of branches aside.
"Don't worry about it," said his mother in an assuring voice. "That's just Dad opening the window in your bedroom.
The boy sighed deeply and thought to himself, "My bedroom..."
He turned around to look across the street at a large grassy area. It looked like a playground. A giant two-story brick building stood about a block away. The boy figured it was a school.
"That's your school," said his mother as if she were reading his mind. She placed her hand on his shoulder. "Come on."
The boy continued to stare at the school. He had never seen one so large and wondered how many kids went there. His old school only had twelve classrooms. This school looked a hundred times bigger.
The mother walked with the boy through the front door and into the living room. The walls were a dirty yellow and hadn't been painted in a long time. It was far different than his old house, of which his mother always kept spotless and freshly painted.
His eyes looked to the left side of the room where an old worn out couch sat in front of the front windows. Across from the couch was a broken down chair and an old television.
The boy closed his eyes as his mind drifted back to his old house by the river. He pictured his mother's upright piano standing against one wall between the living room and the kitchen. It was the center piece of their small house and the pride of his mother. The boy wondered if the new owners played it each day.
He imagined the smell of fresh baked apple pies cooling in the kitchen.
The boy opened his eyes and looked around the entire room. Everything they owned was gone. The smell of the house was decayed and damp.
The boy sat on an old broken-down couch, as his emotions climbed higher and higher. He felt like crying, but no sound came out his throat. Soon, the first tear slowly trickled down his cheeks and off his chin. This was followed by another and then another.
The next day the boy and his mother walked across the playground to the school. They registered him for classes and walked the hallways to his classrooms.
"You will be fine," assured his mother as they walked back to their house.
The boy spent the rest of the day unpacking his things. All the while, he kept thinking about the first day of school, now only eight days away.
Each day passed by as if in slow motion. He would quietly watch kids playing in the neighborhood from the safety of his front porch or the living room window. Every once in a while one of the kids would stop to look at him and then return to whatever they were doing. Unfortunately, the children never invited him to join them or even said 'hello'.
The boy lay in bed each night staring at the ceiling above him. His fear of starting school grew larger and larger with each passing day. He wished his mom and dad would pack up their things and just go home. Anything would be better than this!
The first day of school for the boy loomed as a frightening monster. Everyone was a stranger and everything was different. His confidence and happiness was all but gone and he seemed weak and alone.
The boy's heart pounded as he walked out the door of his house. He looked back for a moment as he crossed the street to the playground. His mom was watching him from the front porch.
"See you after school," her dark brown eyes couldn't hide the anguish she felt for her son.
The boy tried to smile, but to no avail. He turned back around and began walking slowly towards the huge brick building. The boy worked his way around students standing together in small groups visiting with each other. No one seemed to notice him as he walked up the stairs to the side of the giant doors waiting for the bell to ring and signal the students to walk in. The boy looked down at his feet hoping no one would notice him.
Three girls about his age giggled as they walked down the sidewalk together - sharing their most recent gossip. He would soon find out they were well known for spreading rumors and saying cruel things about the other students. Most students tried to avoid them. Some students acted like they were their friends, so as not to get picked on.
The girls started up the stairs toward the giant front doors of the school - where the boy stood alone. One girl was telling her usual gossip about everyone to the other two. She stopped her story immediately and pointed to the boy standing alone by the door. She bobbed her head side to side and looked at the boy in disgust. "Who is that?" She stepped slightly toward the boy, as if examining him. "He looks so - poor!" The girl moved back and leaned against her friends, as if she were getting too close to the boy. "Do you think he has cooties?" All three girls laughed.
The girl reached out slowly with her hand - pointing at the boy with her finger. "Look at those - those old clothes!" She leaned forward over her arm, as if she were aiming her finger at the boy's chest.
The girls walked inside the building without waiting for the bell. They broke into a loud laughter once the girls were inside, making sure the boy could hear them.
The boy stared at the ground ignoring the mean comments and laughter of the girls. His curly auburn brown hair hung down over his forehead. A small tear began to build up in the corner of each eye, as he continued to look down at his feet. The boy watched sadly as the first of several glistening teardrops fell in front of him. He wiped the next set of tears away from his eyes. The boy moved closer to the door awaiting the morning bell. He moved his feet back and forth slowly, revealing two old worn-out summer shoes with small holes near the toes and on the sides.
Students walked by the boy one after another and in small groups. None of them looked his way or said a word. The boy continued to stare sadly down at the ground.
A loud bell broke the morning silence and signaled a warning, of which classes would begin in ten minutes. Soon, there were no students left outside. The boy's eyes slowly looked up and around him. He cautiously slipped inside the doorway, looking down each direction of the hallway. Most of the students were already into their classrooms. Here and there a student hurried to get into a room before the tardy bell. The boy stood just inside the main doors for a moment. He didn't want to walk into his classroom until the last second - it was a way for him to avoid the other students and teachers.
His dark eyes searched for a quiet place to hide for just a few more minutes. He saw the perfect place across the hallway from him - the bathroom. The boy slipped quickly through the bathroom door and inside. His eyes looked in each direction of the room to see if any students were in there - he saw no one. The boy figured it was a safe place to be alone. He stood in the middle of the room staring at the beautiful dark blue tiles on the wall surrounding the mirrors. The boy looked at himself in one of the mirrors - it reminded him of a picture in a beautiful blue frame. He gazed at his messed up hair and tried to comb it as best he could with his fingers and thought to himself as he ran his fingers through his hair, "Curls! Why couldn't my hair have been straight?" The boy moved his hair away from his eyes.
The bathroom door slammed opened and a body moved quickly at the boy. "OUT OF MY WAY JERK!" shouted the voice.
A hand hit the boy in the shoulder knocking him off balance. He fell hard against the side of the sink and crumpled to the floor. His eyes looked up to see a tall red-haired boy with freckles looking down at him in a menacing way. A shorter boy with blonde hair stood beside the red-haired boy. He seemed to be shocked at what had just happened. The blonde looked at the red-haired bully and back again at the boy sitting on the floor with all his things scattered around him. The blonde didn't laugh at first, but did so very quickly when the red-haired bully glared viciously at him for just a moment. It was obvious the blonde boy did not want the red-haired bully to get angry with him.
The bully kicked one of the boy's books across the room, then picked up another one and threw it at a toilet nearby. Luckily, it missed and landed on the floor. The red-haired bully laughed loudly and walked out of the bathroom with the blonde following behind.
The boy struggled back up to his feet, looked at himself in the mirror, and fought back the tears forming in the corners of his eyes. "Why do I have to be in this stupid school?" He kicked wildly into the air and threw his elbows back and forth in anger. "I want to go back home!" The boy placed both of his hands on the edges of the sink and looked unhappily at himself in the mirror with tears slowly trickling down his cheeks into the sink. He turned on the water and began to wash away the tears.
The boy finally found the courage to walk out of the bathroom and across the hallway to his classroom. His eyes quickly scanned the room for an empty desk. He saw the perfect one in the back of the classroom in the far left corner. The boy knew no one could sneak up on him from that seat.
He walked slowly down the aisle next to the wall and placed his things on top of the desk. No one talked to him or even smiled. The boy sighed deeply and sat down in his chair.
His eyes carefully scanned the classroom. Students were visiting with each other and unpacking their things. The teacher was talking to a student on the far side of the room next to the windows. The teacher's back was turned to the boy.
A moment later, the red-haired bully entered the classroom. He immediately saw the boy in the back of the room trying to avoid being seen. The bully smiled as he walked back to the corner of the room and knocked the boy's books on the floor without being seen by the teacher. His vicious blue eyes stared down at the boy for a moment before turning around and finding a seat in the middle of the classroom.
Not one student helped the boy or spoke to him. In just 10 minutes he had been bullied three times for no reason.
This must have been a beacon for every bully to find him in the future. As the school year progressed the boy was shoved, threatened, and verbally harassed in a way, which is unbelievable to imagine, and yet everyday he went to school and never said a word to his parents.
The boy's parents continued to rent the old house near the school, which was cold and hard to heat. Their meals were simple and barely adequate. Tomatoes cooked in bread with macaroni were frequently on the menu. Tea and popcorn was a treat. The boy never had new clothes. He was never invited to join with the other kids. Three months went by with the nightmare continuing. Each night the boy would stare at his bedroom ceiling and remember a day when he was happy and safe.
At Christmas the boy got one gift - a new coat to keep him warm. His father had worked an extra job at night to pay for it. The very first day back to school a bully much bigger than him tried to take his new coat after school in the hallway. The bully and several of his followers circled around the boy. He knew the coat was too small for the bully; the bully was just being mean.
The boy hit the bully in the stomach with his fist. The bully and his buddies were stunned. For a moment it was as if nothing had happened. The bully wasn't hurt, but seemed to be in shock - then his face turned deep red in anger. The boy quickly escaped the group and ran as fast as he could out the giant doors of the school and down the street to his house. He never turned around to see if they were behind him. The boy quickly opened the door to his house, stepped inside, and looked back. The bullies were standing at the edge of his sidewalk. The boy closed the door slowly.
He ran home in fear every day after that incident. Some days they were behind him - some days they weren't!
The boy learned quickly to hide in various places to avoid the bullies. The library and cafeteria provided safe havens for him. The boy tried to avoid bathrooms at all cost.
He would find places near adults, but not too close, as he still distrusted most of them - except the cooks. The cooks in the cafeteria seemed to know the boy was hungry and made sure he got plenty of food. It became his best meal of the day.
Two separate incidents with teachers only increased his distrust in them. The first was a statement by a teacher to him directly, "You're not smart... you will never amount to anything because you're poor!" These words were never forgotten.
The second incident was just as serious. Another teacher used two bullies as teacher assistants in gym class. Some students in the class were behaving inappropriately. The teacher lined up the entire class of students in the gym and directed the bullies to hit each student with a wooden paddle. The act was painful and wrong for all the students. The boy and a few others were singled out to be hit even harder! His trust in adults at school was nearly gone.
These things continued not for another month or two - but for two more years. The boy lived through the bully attacks and the embarrassment of poverty. He never fully trusted a teacher again in that school, and yet always pushed hard to learn more despite his fears. His school attendance remained perfect for the next six years.
His parents never learned of the bullying. They fought hard to make a decent living again. Several years later their hard work finally paid off. Why didn't the boy tell his family about the bullying? Many years later the boy said to his mother, "Dad and you were doing the very best you could do just to survive. You didn't need one more thing."
The boy would learn one day that he was wrong keeping the bullying to himself. He should have gone to parents for help.
Some people believe things such as this make us stronger. I truly struggle with that notion, but I also know that we are a product of our past. Those events left unseen scars on the boy for life. It was those events that made the boy constantly ask the questions, "What did I do that would ever make people want to hurt me so bad? Was it just because I was poor and weak?"
The boy's beliefs in Dignity, Respect, and Understanding were no longer just the teachings of his parents and especially his grandfather. These words had become the foundation of the boy's being and a growing vision into the future.
The boy's name was Jimmie - Jimmie Richard Knapp.
