I’ve been lucky. For most of my life, I’ve taken a stand, called out cheats, and maintained a strong sense of justice. I can’t stand back and watch people get mistreated when some bigot decides to have a go.
So far, it’s yet to lead to any serious trouble.
That doesn’t mean I’m a brave person. I don’t go out of my way looking for injustice; I’m just stubborn enough not to back away.
I’ve had my fair share of shoving matches. You know the ones—a couple of stags bucking with each other while the group holds the angrier one back. I’ve had verbal abuse screamed in my face from some very unlikeable characters. I’ve stood my ground (mostly because I was too shit scared to move) when the hatred was in full flow. I’ve been mugged for simply refusing to cave in, dumb enough not to hand over my possessions. I’ve been attacked on a school bus only because I was wearing the wrong uniform, easily identified for my religion.
But my “one punch” fight happened in college.
No university accepted me with my grades. I had flunked most of my exams (except art) and had few options regarding what I could do or where I could study. With a threatened bleak future already, I turned to a local community college and enrolled in a foundation class.
I was a fish out of water there.
It was quickly apparent who was in control — I easily spotted the alpha males to avoid. The rising stars of thuggery eagerly demonstrated their self-worth with their fists.
I’ve been mugged for simply refusing to cave in, dumb enough not to hand over my possessions. I’ve been attacked on a school bus only because I was wearing the wrong uniform, easily identified for my religion.
I struggled to speak their language and I wasn’t adapting to my new environment. I entered college with no friends; everyone else was connected because they grew up in the local area and attended the same schools. I was the odd one out.
In class, the lads all squatted at the same table. They threw their weight around and begrudgingly did classwork — just a cocky group of adolescents putting everyone down to make themselves look smart. Even the teachers cowered.
I slipped quietly into the nerd section, the friendless group. That was my fate; I pretty much kept to myself.
During the final class of the day, “the lads” sat opposite our nerd table. McBride sat an arm’s length away, his lip permanently curled. An unmistakable glow of anger resonated around him.
For some reason, McBride took offense at something I did. He muttered loud enough for his gang to hear the immortal anti-Semitic words “fucking Jews” while looking directly at me. He eyeballed me for a reaction while they all sniggered. I had no idea what the rest of the conversation was about, but I didn’t care. I was triggered.
I turned to him and curtly voiced my reply. In my mind, I was stoic and calm, a steely-eyed Clint Eastwood. I replied in a slow, precise manner, so this neanderthal clearly understood what I was saying:
“Why. Don’t. You. Go. Fuck. Your. Mum?”
Time stopped. The usually noisy class instantly lost all volume — everybody heard. We locked eyes, and I held McBride’s stare. His mates all mocked him for taking crap off me.
“You’re fucking dead. After class,” he spat. Classic. I stopped short of asking him if we needed to meet behind the bike sheds. I was no longer cocksure with adrenaline; I knew I had to get out before him.
It was a 10-minute walk to the bus stop. The college sat in a cul-de-sac, so there was only one way to go. I managed to get a ride into the city center straight away and was gone before he left the building. But I knew I couldn’t avoid him forever.
The next day I managed to leave early and get on a bus without any hassle. There was no word from the gang either. This was a minor altercation, and one outspoken Jew wasn’t going to slow those racists down. I figured I had gotten away with it.
Sure enough, the day finally arrived. I didn’t get far down the street before I heard my name. I considered ignoring the shouts but knew I had to stand my ground; I couldn’t avoid them forever. I stopped and waited for the mob to catch up. It was clear that this was the day for the encounter as the whole class seemed to trail behind McBride like a lynch mob. I was frightened — this was going to hurt.
McBride wanted to rumble; he needed to punch somebody.
I heard someone behind me shout, “Grab his glasses!’ and I turned as someone reached out for my goggles. That’s when the blow struck. I had my head turned to one side.
One strike, and I was on the floor. I hoped for a better performance, more raging bull than Daffy Duck.
He struck my nose and blood streamed everywhere. I was in shock on my back but had the right frame of mind not to get up. I couldn’t make out what they said but felt warm spit land on my face. The braying crowd had moved on; I clearly wasn’t worth any more effort.
I felt humiliated, but worse still was the feeling of being let down. Where were my mates? Where was “Karate Kid” Ron? Why hadn’t anybody stepped in to defend me? Nobody had thought to stop this poor matchup. Perhaps they all felt I deserved it and was in need of a lesson? Maybe they were simply scared.
My shirt was covered in blood. Tony at least handed me a handkerchief to wipe the spit and stem the flow of blood from my nose.
There is no upside to this story. The racist arseholes went on to become even bigger racist arseholes. Twenty years later, I’m still scarred by that one punch and the way nobody would stand up to the racist with me. Not a single person from that one-year course is in my life today.
But I learned that people come and go. Some years are just crap, and you need to deal with it. Build resilience; good times are always around the corner.
When racist thugs confront me, I still stand my ground every time. That day taught me to count on and believe in myself. There’s no room for racism, and I’ll never back down when faced with its ugly head.
This post originally appeared on Medium and is edited and republished with author's permission. Read more of Reuben Salsa's work on Medium.