January 29, 2010
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I am a puller
There are two kinds of people in a fight; the pullers and the pushers. I stretch out my sore muscles and reflect on last night. There are always more pullers than pushers. This thought surprises me with its optimism. But it takes both to make a fight go off well.
The lines are not divided well. Words can transform pullers to pushers in seconds. It is harder to turn a pusher to a puller, because of a combination of emotion, adrenaline, and expectation pulsing through the air.
Everyone has seen the event: two people start raising their voices. The emotion thrown into the air draws like flies and a circle/semi-circle forms. Adrenaline shoots into veins like an old-time heroine addict. Males tend to then begin to remove clothing, while females point and jerk their neck around. Then the pullers begin:
“Don’t do it man, this ain’t worth it.” “Calm down dude!” “Nobody is calling nobody.”
Two camps form around the individuals, mixed with taunts and threats. Good advice is normally heard somewhere, but only softly. The pullers separate and divide, for good intention or not, and 90% of fights end here, before they start.
They let the person breathe easy. Someone makes a joke, and laughter cuts the ribbon of air to open the door to peace. Or at least equalibriam. Girls will giggle and gossip and backstab, boys will swagger, making it known that they heroically let the ****** live another day.
But some do not end. Sometimes there are not enough pullers, or not the right pullers, and the two pushers meet. Either their emotions are so high they cannot think, or they feel the weight of the expectation to fight, or most likely, a mixture of both. A swing, a retaliation, and it is on.
Pullers will jump people like hurtles, aiming for the epicenter. They have the same level of intensity, but for the opposite effect. Many of them just want to make peace, some just want in on the action.
I am a puller. On my tree-lined suburbian street where birds chirp, you would never guess. It surprised me just as much. i shook hands with the ghetto when i was 16, teaching character at an alternative school.
“I feel more at home with them than HERE.”
i whispered to myself during a Sunday church service. Teenage years are supposed to be when you “Find yourself,” but all i found was that i was losing myself. I was losing who i had always been. I didn’t fit in with comfortable white community i grew up in. It was a silent rejection, on both sides. But the outward smiles never changed. In it, i found myself longing for honesty and realness. I came to appriciate the blunt “Dude, i don’t LIKE you today” that came from my other world, and let me know where i stood.He was a small 12 year old, and i never saw the punch until it landed on my jaw. The force of it stunned me, and the confusion, pain, and hurt spread to my eyes with tears. Would i really be the sissy that cried? Yes, i was. Not from the pain of the punch, but from the situation. I came to help, and left beat-up.
Being a puller isn’t easy. And it isn’t always fair. While i had yelled and jumped in the middle of many fights by the time i turned 19, this was the first time i had gotten hurt. My pride was the damaged the most. i figured since i was the “do-gooder,” i should have immunity. Since i was the one who left my comfortable place to work in the dirty corner of the city, i should be shown some respect.
To give him some credit, the lil’ kid hadn’t seen me. And as soon as the two boys saw my tears they ran home, scared. They came back the next day with apologies and “It will never happen again, Mz.Rachel.” And i was just as happy to put the incident behind me as they were.
Several years later,and i am still a puller. I work at a youth center where it is part of my job description to spot and defuse those circle/semi-circles from forming. I try to be the one who makes someone laugh and cuts the aggression before it starts. I try to cut in with other suggestions. Or i just put on my tough face and get dirty looks as i play the authority. most of the time it works. but not last night.
I am not sure what it is in me that pulls me to rush into the middle of a fight. I get the same adrenaline high as the pushers. i put my hands on people and pull. More often then not, i get pulled around. The intensity cannot hold itself up for long, and they fall apart, panting.
Then begins the long process of sorting out the situation. It will be whispered about on the bus, texted to relatives, and told in different forms all over the city the next day. Braggers and swaggers will gloat. Side liners will ofter their adoration or depreciation, based on who they thought was tough. The ones deemed losers will skip school for a couple days.
Pushers often surprise you. Who knew they had nursed a grudge for so long over something so small? Pullers have their own bag of tricks. Some are just a front, pulling apart to look like the good guy, when really it was just to show-off, or get their hit in under the ribs. Some began with good intentions, until they get hit and it becomes their fight too. Some were the ones who really started the fight, spreading their lies and gossip like venom that kills silently.
Fights draw up new lines. New heroes are born, and new lepers are made. Aliances are formed and deals are made. “You got my back, dude?” is a new form of insurance from the dark fear of being jumped. Someone has been proved and someone has been broken. And everyone waits on the sidelines, predicting who will be next.
