Just be Nice

We're gonna skip 14 years from my birth, to junior high. I was frequently referred to by my last name Bockas, cause James was just too normal for my character. What can I say about junior high...I absolutely fucking hated it. Every morning I woke up, I dreaded going back to school because I was knew sometime during the day I was going to be humiliated, or verbally abused, or picked on. Pretty much, I had no friends. The friends I made in elementary abandoned me, and the only people that would talk to me or gave me any type of common courtesy only did so in fear that I was a pending spree killer and that I would later shoot up the school, and, coincedentally, spare their lives. I can attribute my awkwardness, my chubbiness, and the fact that I wore a trench coat to school, the starting line for these feelings toward me. Practically, I had "Columbine" written on my forehead and everybody knew it.

I've been told I am too patient. I am. It can be a bad thing though, when I bottle up all that malcontent, if you just happened to be the unlucky son of bitch to top it off, the gun was already loaded in my head, and you pulled the trigger. Case and point: This kid named Drew in the 7th grade, used to torment me at every point. All I did was mind my own business, but let me tell you something, if you show any repute to what any ever says to you, especially if your a kid, its all over. They will push that button until you fucking break. My buttons were 1-making fun of my last name, and 2-making fun of my weight. He did both, everyday, in junior high. One day he thought it'd be funny to punch me in the back of the head, all through class. That was the last straw, fuck it. As soon as we were out of class, I lost my shit, punched him, jumped on top of him and started choking him like relentlessly, until some stupid girl fucking pulled me by my hair to get off of him, but fuck it, he needed to learn his lesson already.

The next day we were supposed to meet for a "fight", in the library, the center of attention in all the school. He stares at me with fire in his eyes. Yeah, I supposed it was dirty for me to jump him after class, but given the 6 months of torment I took from him, I call it fucking even. I said "Are you going to hit me, or just stand there?" He punched me twice in the face. I looked at him like it didnt even phase me (it didnt. he didnt hit any harder than my little sister). Although, as I made my advance, Drew covered up before I even cocked back my arm, but my friend Kyler intervened, told me it wasnt worth it. That I would be in so much more trouble. I took his word with a grain of salt and walked away from that. Let it be known though, from this point I was not going to walk away from anything else. No matter what, if somebody wronged me, I needed to take a piece of them before they left.

9th grade rolled around I was still the awkward fuck I had always been, but I started to develop a little more socially. This is the year I became aquaintance with one of my best friends, Derek. We had talked and shot the shit before, he didn't seem to judge me so I hung around him. I also met my friend, Micah, in whatever-fucking-class-it-was I can't remember. I just remember the teacher looking like a sad mix of super mario and saddam hussein. Micah didn't really talk to me at this point. I didnt really become friends with either until, my sophmore year. That is another time.

Here in this grade, was a turning point for me, socially. After lunch one day, I was on my way to my locker when all of this sudden, this D-bag named Braden, started mocking me in some sort of dance in front of my face, AND then he head butts me. Instinctively, I punched him in back, don't know why, it just seemed like a good idea at the time. I turned around and proceeded to my locker. He looks at me and says "Why'd you hit me?!"
I respond "Why'd you head butt me?"
"You want to hit me again?"
"Sure."

I punched him in the stomach, and I walked away, back to class. Let it be known, men do not like to get punked by somebody, let alone somebody smaller than them. I was incredibly smaller than this piece of shit. Later, after my last class had been released, I was on my way back to my locker before school got out, shooting the shit with my friend, Chris, when out of nowhere, that fucking Braden kd, decided to jump on my back and start punching my head, yelling "Come on faggot, fight me!" He jumped off and squared up. I was in no mood for this shit, and I cannot even call that retribution, the little chicken shit. On one side of my brain, I was thinking "This is bad the principles office is around the corner." On the other side, I was thinking "Do not let this kid try to punk you again, teach him a lesson, and fuck him up." Then there was the cheers, the egging on from the surrounding crowd, including two of guys from class, Willis and Matt, who would taunt on a regular basis. They were shouting "Bockas, your going to let him get away with that? Kick his ass." My time to shine, my time to make a name for myself. I dropped my backpack and went to work.

I fucking grabbed him by his shirt, turned him around, slammed him into the vending machine (repeatedly), and then through him to the ground and punched him (repeatedly). I waged war on his fucking face, until the echo of "get the principle!" could be heard through the hallways. I let him go, and I walked briskly out of the school and off home.

The next day was filled with words of encouragement, and "good fucking job". I could recant the story as many times as I wanted and it would never get old. I loved it. For the first time, ever, I had people bringing me up instead of putting me down. All I had to due was commit random acts of violence to entertain, and to create memories. "Remember the time, Bockas beat the shit out of that kid in school, yeah he was crazy as hell." My bullies, became friendlier to me. It was the most positive reinforcement that I ever had.

Let me tell you this though, kind words go along way. You should make anybody feel welcome unless they prove themselves unworthy in trust or loyalty. There is no need to pick on someone, because they are different or weaker. Doing this creates a void in them, because they do not understand why they are being punished. This void is filled with distain and hurt and hate because you keep pushing them and they do not know the means to make it end, because they don't understand why you do it in the first place. This may be followed by retaliation when the individual has had enough. And when the only encouragement somebody has ever had (by his peers) is through violence, well then, thats what he's going to resort to whenever things arent going the right way anymore...Just be nice, fuck, it really isnt that hard.

Author's Note

I am writing in relation to past comments about my, well...writing. Apparently people think I'm a good story teller when I get ahold of a keyboard or handed a pen. Fuck me, I slur my words, drop my "T's" like the midwest, and constantly stall with uh's and ah's when the my words are coming out of my mouth faster than I am thinking of them; basically, you would have never known I can make complete, coherent sentences if you talked to me on a daily basis. Not to mention, I am socially awkward as all hell around people I don't know. I guess it just takes time for me to feel you out more so than other people. The point is I wish I could talk as fluid as I write.
This web page is just a memoir of monumental times in my life back in my home town of Ogden, Utah. Your first indication is that I am mormon. I know the stereotype and much to my parent's disapproval, I am not. Death isn't here yet, I'll worry about life after life when I get there (if there is such a thing). It is also a manifesto on my stance in life, based on previous events. My years are based on maximum misfortunes, and minimal pleasures. The articles here are riddled with my views, which may seem humorous, or insane, but believe you me, these stories made me.
The blog is called Betraying the Voice of Reason. We'll start out with how some teenage, jesus loving male is molded into the realist he is today. My friends always referred to me as "the good one", and I always saw myself as the Voice of Reason among my beloved crew. As hard as I tried to spread an ounce of common sense, I always found myself, or themselves in self-destructive situations which made little sense to me, but perfect sense to them; somehow, later it made sense to me.
Honestly, I may be endangering myself by presenting these ideas, and memories. Your criticism is welcome, but may not be appreciated, because honestly, I fucking hate being publically humiliated but I guess you put yourself up for that when you write shit like this.
The names here after are being changed to protect the people they blah blah blah blah...I'm not going to do that. I am too lazy, and my creativity can only last for so long.