This is a story about Tomas and Abel…..and me.
They were two brothers who arrived from Mexico into our neighborhood when we were in fifth grade.
Abel was big for his age, and probably because he didn’t speak English, he got placed in sixth grade—even though he might have been ready for eighth or even 1st year of high school. He had dark hair, very fair skin, and looked like he could be a lineman. His brother, Tomas, had red hair. Freckles. And skinny as a pole.
After school every day, about 10 to 15 boys would follow them home, taunting them, picking on them.
Abel and Tomas were in new territory.
They didn’t fight back, even though Abel looked like he could. But he was there to protect his brother, too.
I was one of those kids walking home with the stupid pack. But not to pick on them. More like an observer—feeling bad, because I liked them.
One day, they were followed all to way to their home. It was only one block from school. Tomas, Abel, closely followed by the pack and me tagging along, cut across an empty lot in front of the school, down an alley, cross the street, to their apartment. Their parents—we never saw them. Likely, at work to make ends meet.
That day, right in front of their home, the boys pushed Abel too far. He finally fought back. But, was outnumbered and they had him on the ground, while three others surrounded Tomas and started punching him.
I had enough and jumped in to help Tomas.
I got slugged in the face. Kicked. I ended up on the ground next to Tomas who was also roughed up. After what felt like more than enough, after Abel’s nose was bloodied, and Tomas and I were beaten, the pack scurried off, laughing.
We then sat there on the front steps of their apartment, not saying much.
After that, Tomas, Abel, and I were a unit during recess and lunch. After classes, we’d sit in an empty classroom, just talking, until the coast was clear to go to home.
Tomas and Abel told me about life in Mexico, about how their parents got them to the U.S., how they crossed the border through the desert for two days—walked at night; rested in the shade during the day—with a group of men and women.
After a while, the boys at school stopped taunting. And on Friday nights, Tomas and Abel started coming to the free gym time at the school, playing dodgeball with 20 or 30 other kids.
I don’t know what happened to Tomas and Abel. I wish we had kept in touch, that we were still friends.
But what I do know is this—something in me changed during that time. I learned to trust my instincts. To stick with people I felt truly comfortable around.
And I think, in some way, they helped me as much as I tried to helped them that day.
We all have moments where we can stand up for someone, choose courage and kindness, or walk away.
What choice will you make when you are in this moment?
Coaching for Hispanic Men
Comentarios