Flipping the Bird, Lookout!
At fourteen, in Guatemala, I learned some things about life.
He slammed me up against a wall of windows, my feet just barely touching the floor. His big ugly face screaming high pitched in my face, his hot breath mixed with yesterday’s booze, almost sickened me.
Mr. Scruert was our 8th-grade science teacher, he was also an ex-marine drill sergeant. Scruert had but one setting: asshole.
Guatemala, 1964 at the American School, I’d heard that he was a real shit head and that day I confirmed it. I was born in Guatemala. My parents, however, were US citizens. Neither my dad or my mom were ever going to teach me how to flip someone off, you know, like flipping your middle finger at someone. My buddies were as ignorant as I was, with an occasional exception.
An American buddy of mine earlier that morning in math class had just shown me how to flip someone off, American style. The Latin bird is different, more complicated, and more difficult to do, even has a hint of a contortionist.
Scruert was a new teacher. In those days, all one needed was an American passport to get a teaching job at the American School. He’d been around for several months now. His classes always started with him putting all of us down, telling us how, at our current rate of learning, not a single one of us would ever succeed in life. Just so many things about this barrel-chested bully told me this guy was nothing but trouble, even dangerous. His specialty was picking out my classmates, who were Guatemalan and belittling them in any way he could.
He’d insult the Guatemalans for being so backward and that if it weren’t for the US military presence in Guatemala, the commies would’ve long since taken over. Somehow, it wasn’t enough for him to put down students. He’d insult one’s entire family. As I was white and gringo faced, he’d mistaken me for an American citizen. In fact, I was born in Guatemala and had dual passports for both the US and Guatemala.
“Hey Jacobson, so I know you’re a US citizen. Tell us why you think the Guatemalans mess everything up.” So went his inflammatory questions of the few other real Americans in my class. Rarely ventured into science. The class hour was dedicated to him, blowing hot air about how great he was in the Marines.
In fact, he was one of those wannabes that fortune had placed between armed conflicts. He’s missed Korea and would miss Vietnam which was just barely becoming an issue. He’d already retired from the Marines. In hindsight, he was too young, so I’m guessing they drummed him out of the corps. I guess the reason was for being an unstable element. He said he’d been a drill sergeant. The rumor was that he mistreated recruits and had crossed way over the line.
One morning in the cool Guatemalan climate, Scruert had gotten the class off with his usual tirade. This one had to do with the indigenous people protesting in front of the national palace downtown. They were asking for a better pricing policy on their farm products. “They should machine gun them down like bugs. In Korea, that’s what they would do if anyone got outta line. If you let people take over, then you have anarchy. You all know what anarchy is, right? “
It was at this point that Scruert might ask for confirmation from another American student. “Isn’t that right, Joe? I bet your folks have told you the same thing.” Most students just smiled stupidly or looked down at their books and said as little as possible. The sheer size of the guy was a sort of bullying. We feared him. “What’s the matter, Billy, cat got yer tongue, mister?”
Something welled up inside me, and even though I sat in the back row, as far away from this animal as possible, he spotted me in an instant as I swept my hair, flipping him the bird at the same time.
“Are you flipping me off mister, get your butt up here in front of the class hotshot. I’m gonna teach you a lesson about flipping the bird at me” Before I knew it, he’d backed me up against a windowed wall that looked out to the soccer field. His massive torso had me pinned painfully against the metal opening handles to the window. He grabbed my throat and held me with an iron grip.
His enormous face, curly topped, turned as red as a turnip. As he spoke, I can recall the spittle hitting my face. I thought he was going to bite my nose off or smash me with his hammer-like fists.
For what it’s worth, every word of this story is as accurate as I can recall.
It was just me against Scruert, and yes, maybe I got what I had coming to me. And yes, I learned through the years that many can be quite sensitive about having someone flip them off. I did not know; I was just trying it out. Big miscalculation. Can be a recipe for a fistfight if that’s what you’re looking for.
He started slamming me against the wall, again and again, the noise against the windows a loud reverberation and rattling. By now I heard the other students voicing concern. Someone said they should go to the office and tell.
“I ever catch you doing that again, Jacobson. I’m gonna knock your block off, you hear?! Now get the hell outta my class and don’t come back, out I said!”
I was pretty shaken up; I guess I was fourteen about then. Sure, I’d been in a handful of fights with my buddies. Given that these fights were between kids of similar size, the damage done was rather minimal. At worst, I remember Fernando Sanchez, whose girlfriend I sort of stole, ended with a bloody nose, a lucky hit. After hitting him, I immediately regretted it and after a while, I asked Fernando if he was okay and that I really hadn’t meant to give him a bloody nose.
After a short while, Scruert called out to the hallway and ordered me back into the room. I sat with lips trembling; the experience had shaken me. Looking back, I’m sure he told me to come back to the classroom because, no doubt, he was afraid the principal would come along. If I had told the principal that this guy had just slammed me against the wall, he would’ve gotten fired.
I didn’t report the incident because at that age I still held adults in a high and invulnerable place, as though concluding: I could never be right against an adult; my word against his, I’d never win. It took the later sixties to obliterate such conditioned thinking.
Had this happened in 2010 with one of our teenage boys, my wife would have led the charge with fire in her eyes and a machete in hand straight to the principal’s office. Like I say, different times different approaches. In those old days, it was even accepted that if a kid misbehaved, a teacher might even slap a kid on the hand with a ruler or a yardstick; I saw this many times. Try that now…
Not long after this happened, Scruert went after the daughter of a cattle rancher, Ruthie Ortega. Hers was a class a couple of years ahead of mine. Students reported later that Ruthie ignored an order from Scruert, having to do with not wanting to dissect a frog. Scruert lost his cool and grabbed Ruthie by the hair and dragged her out of the classroom.
Dan Wilson, who had a crush on Ruthie and stood tall at around six foot five, got up and followed them out the door. He grabbed Scruert in a headlock until he let go of Ruthie. The entire class reported hearing Dan say: “If you’re gonna pick on someone, pick on another man.” Students walking down the hall saw Scruert charge Dan. Dan somehow maneuvered so that he could get a good hold of the bully and slammed him against the wall, then raised his fist and let fly busting open his mouth. Students cheered. Scruert turned to the students like an old, wounded lion and roared harmlessly.
A side story to this, (true), was that Ruthie was the daughter of a Cuban refugee, the cattle rancher, heavily involved in the darker reaches of Guatemalan politics and had a deep connection to dangerous elements. It was Scruerts incredibly good fortune that Ruthie’s father either never heard of the incident or chose to let it pass.
Several weeks after I was sitting in my school bus about to depart the school for the day when a loud cheering went up throughout all the packed buses. Rumor spread that Scruert had been fired, the case not related to Ruthie, but perhaps it had all piled up. It had more to do with a sweet teacher who Scruert had tried to bully into dating him and when she refused his advances; he became violent.
Looking out the bus window, there he was, red-faced and walking to his car. Scruet was gone.
Not too many years later, they drafted Dan to Vietnam. During an ambush, he tried to save his buddies. A bullet ended his life.
If there is a simple yet meaningful equation or moral to this story, it is that many, many times, so many years later, I still recall Dan’s exemplary guts, and his valor. Occasionally, Scruert comes to mind, and I realize that this world is truly divided into the good guys and the bad. I think too of the small fourteen-year-old boy the failed marine pushed around; my regret was never seeing him again.
