Fighting Sullivan now has a podcast, from A Bountiful Life's Smorgasbord. Listen for inspiration and guidance on how to fight the good fight. This episode includes the story of one of my first victorious fights, in middle school, against a particular injustice. The text of story appears below, should you prefer to read. Warning! The language is explicit (but all true).
The Strike: A Story of Rebellion
“Now Alexander the Great,” said Mr. Duffy while inhaling a cigarette, “was a queer. But he was a good warrior. He united the infighting Macedonians, brought ‘em culture.”
Mr. Duffy was our ancient history teacher. In his late fifties, bald, a retired Navy officer, he smoked while he instructed.
“Yo, Mr. Duffy,” said Mike Healy, a sort of round-faced kid with bushy black hair. “Are you like saying for real Alexander the Great liked sucking dick?”
Inspired by this remark, the class started making dick sucking noises.
“Yes, that’s what I’m saying you little shits,” said Mr. Duffy, thwacking Mike on the head with the blunt end of his Naval Academy Class ring.
But the dick sucking noises crescendoed anyway. Mine were particularly dramatic, and involved.
“Look,” said Mike, “Sullivan’s sucking dick like a pro!”
“Queer! Fag! Cock sucker!” the class started chanting. I kept going. I thought it was funny.
Mr. Duffy came and whispered in my ear, “Sullivan, you must BE a queer if you don’t fight back.”
I stopped my dick sucking routine. I looked out the classroom window into the courtyard, where a statue of the Virgin Mary stood, arms elevated in blessing. Beyond Mary was a valley of trees and fields, a wilderness campus. I began to sense there was something different, even wrong about me.
Mr. Duffy continued his lesson. “Now even if he was a queer,” continued Mr. Duffy to the class, “Alexander the Great knew how to fight like a man, so there’s that paradox. The key is in Alexander’s education, he experienced pain. Pain is essential for manhood.”
Mr. Duffy looked out across the courtyard, towards the Virgin and crossed himself.
“You must seek out pain,” he continued, “or you’ll be a wimp. Take for example John Softy.” John Softy, a skinny, pale, and quiet boy, was out sick that day. “John Softy hasn’t experienced a day of pain in his life. He’s coddled. He needs some PAIN to build his character, or else he’ll end up queer.”
When John Softy returned to school from his illness, Mike and some of the other boys started to beat him up regularly.
Mike had this trick he used for beatings called the Elbow of Fury. He’d come up from behind, crying, “The Elbow of Fury is At Hand!” then drive his elbow hard into your back. Thwack. It hurt. We all got it, but now there was a target.
This became the game at recess, which we took indoors in the classroom, unsupervised by teachers, even as the Virgin Mary seemed to watch us from the courtyard. The game was beating up John Softy.
One recess, Mike subjected John Softy to many of his famous elbow attacks. Again and again. The rest of us watched. John seemed to be taking it in stride. This was just the way things were. Then Mike charged at him another time, yelling, “THE ELBOW OF FURY IS AT HAND!” And John sprung to life, a fire in his eyes, grabbed Mike, pushing the elbow aside, put him in a headlock, and dragged him all across the classroom and smashed his head through the window looking out into the courtyard. Glass was everywhere.
John released Mike. They were both shocked. “Holy shit,” said Mike. There were only about twenty of us, thirteen year old boys in a classroom and things had gotten out of hand. Then in came Mr. Duffy. He looked at the broken window, and took a sip of his glass of red wine.
“You boys in the seventh grade are hereby banned from indoor recess. Now you boys get out of here while somebody cleans up.” And he left.
This was an outrage. I was furious. Outside in the courtyard, I felt inspired to make a speech. “This punishment is not fair. We didn’t DO anything except exactly what Mr. Duffy told us. He basically told the class to beat John up so that he would feel pain, and he should be proud that you bashed Mike’s head in the window.”
“Yeah, that’s right,” said John.
“Fuck yeah,” said Mike, “that old fucking coot MADE me kick John around.”
The anger started building. “I’m sick and tired of us beating each other up when the real problem is the teachers.” I hatched a plan. At the class after lunch, we’d go on strike. It was math class.
Mr. Mac was the teacher, a tall, slim, dark haired man in his twenties. “Okay class, today we’re going to discuss fractions, mkay?” he said. “Open your books.”
Nobody opened. We sat quietly, hands folded.
“Mkay, now open your books, seventh grade, mkay?”
Nothing. This was the quietest we had ever been as a class. We were unified. Of single mind and purpose. We said NOTHING.
“Now class!” said Mr. Mac. “Now class! Open your books.” He looked helpless.
I stood up. “Mr. Mac,” I said. “We will only open our books if you get Mr. Duffy to come back in here and apologize to us for banning us from indoor recess. That is our demand and when that happens and only then we will open our books.”
And that was the beginning of the revolt of the seventh grade, and how I began to learn, in my own way, to fight back.
After this, I went home and I wrote a letter to the teachers. I explained how the they had encouraged us to abuse one another and this had caused us significant emotional and physical pain. The school had distributed a pamphlet recently on the danger of peer pressure, but I said the true danger was “teacher pressure.” I gave the letter to my faculty advisor, Mr. Uhen, and he posted it in the faculty lounge.
Shortly after, Mr. Duffy asked to see me. We sat on the couch in the hall between classrooms. “Sullivan,” he said. “I didn’t realize. I didn’t realize what I was doing. I am sorry. I’m sorry.”
This is when I first began to recognized that in my difference was a kind of strength. But it scared me a little. It scared me that I could win. But I could. I could fight with the best of them.
Mr. Duffy was our ancient history teacher. In his late fifties, bald, a retired Navy officer, he smoked while he instructed.
“Yo, Mr. Duffy,” said Mike Healy, a sort of round-faced kid with bushy black hair. “Are you like saying for real Alexander the Great liked sucking dick?”
Inspired by this remark, the class started making dick sucking noises.
“Yes, that’s what I’m saying you little shits,” said Mr. Duffy, thwacking Mike on the head with the blunt end of his Naval Academy Class ring.
But the dick sucking noises crescendoed anyway. Mine were particularly dramatic, and involved.
“Look,” said Mike, “Sullivan’s sucking dick like a pro!”
“Queer! Fag! Cock sucker!” the class started chanting. I kept going. I thought it was funny.
Mr. Duffy came and whispered in my ear, “Sullivan, you must BE a queer if you don’t fight back.”
I stopped my dick sucking routine. I looked out the classroom window into the courtyard, where a statue of the Virgin Mary stood, arms elevated in blessing. Beyond Mary was a valley of trees and fields, a wilderness campus. I began to sense there was something different, even wrong about me.
Mr. Duffy continued his lesson. “Now even if he was a queer,” continued Mr. Duffy to the class, “Alexander the Great knew how to fight like a man, so there’s that paradox. The key is in Alexander’s education, he experienced pain. Pain is essential for manhood.”
Mr. Duffy looked out across the courtyard, towards the Virgin and crossed himself.
“You must seek out pain,” he continued, “or you’ll be a wimp. Take for example John Softy.” John Softy, a skinny, pale, and quiet boy, was out sick that day. “John Softy hasn’t experienced a day of pain in his life. He’s coddled. He needs some PAIN to build his character, or else he’ll end up queer.”
When John Softy returned to school from his illness, Mike and some of the other boys started to beat him up regularly.
Mike had this trick he used for beatings called the Elbow of Fury. He’d come up from behind, crying, “The Elbow of Fury is At Hand!” then drive his elbow hard into your back. Thwack. It hurt. We all got it, but now there was a target.
This became the game at recess, which we took indoors in the classroom, unsupervised by teachers, even as the Virgin Mary seemed to watch us from the courtyard. The game was beating up John Softy.
One recess, Mike subjected John Softy to many of his famous elbow attacks. Again and again. The rest of us watched. John seemed to be taking it in stride. This was just the way things were. Then Mike charged at him another time, yelling, “THE ELBOW OF FURY IS AT HAND!” And John sprung to life, a fire in his eyes, grabbed Mike, pushing the elbow aside, put him in a headlock, and dragged him all across the classroom and smashed his head through the window looking out into the courtyard. Glass was everywhere.
John released Mike. They were both shocked. “Holy shit,” said Mike. There were only about twenty of us, thirteen year old boys in a classroom and things had gotten out of hand. Then in came Mr. Duffy. He looked at the broken window, and took a sip of his glass of red wine.
“You boys in the seventh grade are hereby banned from indoor recess. Now you boys get out of here while somebody cleans up.” And he left.
This was an outrage. I was furious. Outside in the courtyard, I felt inspired to make a speech. “This punishment is not fair. We didn’t DO anything except exactly what Mr. Duffy told us. He basically told the class to beat John up so that he would feel pain, and he should be proud that you bashed Mike’s head in the window.”
“Yeah, that’s right,” said John.
“Fuck yeah,” said Mike, “that old fucking coot MADE me kick John around.”
The anger started building. “I’m sick and tired of us beating each other up when the real problem is the teachers.” I hatched a plan. At the class after lunch, we’d go on strike. It was math class.
Mr. Mac was the teacher, a tall, slim, dark haired man in his twenties. “Okay class, today we’re going to discuss fractions, mkay?” he said. “Open your books.”
Nobody opened. We sat quietly, hands folded.
“Mkay, now open your books, seventh grade, mkay?”
Nothing. This was the quietest we had ever been as a class. We were unified. Of single mind and purpose. We said NOTHING.
“Now class!” said Mr. Mac. “Now class! Open your books.” He looked helpless.
I stood up. “Mr. Mac,” I said. “We will only open our books if you get Mr. Duffy to come back in here and apologize to us for banning us from indoor recess. That is our demand and when that happens and only then we will open our books.”
And that was the beginning of the revolt of the seventh grade, and how I began to learn, in my own way, to fight back.
After this, I went home and I wrote a letter to the teachers. I explained how the they had encouraged us to abuse one another and this had caused us significant emotional and physical pain. The school had distributed a pamphlet recently on the danger of peer pressure, but I said the true danger was “teacher pressure.” I gave the letter to my faculty advisor, Mr. Uhen, and he posted it in the faculty lounge.
Shortly after, Mr. Duffy asked to see me. We sat on the couch in the hall between classrooms. “Sullivan,” he said. “I didn’t realize. I didn’t realize what I was doing. I am sorry. I’m sorry.”
This is when I first began to recognized that in my difference was a kind of strength. But it scared me a little. It scared me that I could win. But I could. I could fight with the best of them.
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