else. While I determined what to do next, the words “Rio Grande” rhythmically repeated in my mind.
Throughout my life, when anything was labeled big, like that river, it immediately tugged at my attention. On the Mexican side they called the same stream Rio Bravo: the fierce river. On opposite banks of the river with two names, sometimes children would fire rocks from homemade slingshots and catapult insults in English and Spanish, but not that day.
Sometimes the river was full and fast-moving. But at other times it seemed to dry up. When it almost dried up, as it had the winter before, I imagined that its life had moved underground, its spirit descending to where no one could see it. I liked the fact that the Rio Grande/Rio Bravo didn’t always match its name. Just like me, the river did not fit with the names people called it—whatever language they spoke.
Sitting there with my knees folded up to my chest, I sensed that the river was alive, ever changing. At least for those few minutes, I felt at peace, calmed by the flowing water. Back then, peaceful times like that were islands in the stream for me; few and far between.
Somewhere up river, the last of the huge winter snow packs in the mountains of Colorado and New Mexico had melted. That, plus two weeks of strong, nightly summer monsoons made the water flow fast and free, almost flooding the banks. That day, it truly looked like a big, fierce river.
I turned my head to see that Ben and his friends had waded farther downstream to hunt for crawdads in the shade of an old oak whose branches hung out over the shallows. It was really hot. The water looked so inviting but it was too dangerous.
“Hey, Jake!” I turned and recognized a group of five boys and a girl from the neighborhood approaching. I stood up and cautiously walked toward them. You might say back then I was too trusting or pretty naive. But I think I was still innocent. Three of the boys were classmates from school. One was younger—about thirteen—as was the girl. When I got closer they began to run away.
“The giraffe, the giraffe!” the ragtag group of teenagers squealed as they galloped off in mock terror.
I think that whenever something like that happened—and it frequently did—it hurt like a punch in the gut, shattering the illusion I wanted to believe; that I might fit in with the others.
Caught up in the moment and wanting to be accepted in the new game, I chased them like a lion cub after blue wildebeest. I pursued my quarry in a gangly canter, feeling the afternoon breeze warm my face.
Winded, I finally cornered them about a hundred yards down river. They huddled under a Palo Verde tree on a bed of its fallen yellow flowers. It’s been so long, I cannot remember most of their names.
A skinny boy with patched overalls and buck teeth stepped forward and pointed. “Look! It’s Ichabod Crane.”
Then the girl—she had freckles and pigtails—jumped out from behind one of the boys and barked, “How’s the weather up there, Jake?”
Everyone laughed.
Emboldened, a chubby blond boy, a head shorter than everyone else, put his hands on his head. His outstretched fingers formed his unworldly idea of a jungle animal’s ears. Then he swaggered in front of the pack. “Is it a boy? Is it a girl? No! It’s a giraffe.”
Soon the others picked up the chant. “Giraffe . . . giraffe . . . giraffe!” they bellowed.
Frozen, unable to flee or fight as any animal would, I just stood there. Eisenbeis—I do remember his name—stepped out from behind the others and sized up the frenzy.
He was a sixteen-year-old bully and the biggest boy in the neighborhood besides me. I’d seen him beat a boy so bad it left him unconscious. Eisenbeis was the type I tried to steer clear of. He ran around wild because his father was a drunk and his mother left him when he was little. So when he approached me as if to help, I didn’t know what to make of it. But at that moment my hope for an ally made me too trusting. Against my better judgment, I hesitated.
When he got close enough, I saw a blank stare in his gray eyes, as if he was glaring at someone else. Isn’t it funny that I can still remember the color of that bastard’s eyes? When I realized what was happening, it was too late. Eisenbeis socked me in my groin. Then he shoved me. I was reeling from the pain and wanting to vomit. I had no idea that Tito, his henchman, was crouched on hands and knees behind me to ensure I would fall backward.
I tumbled, taking the brunt of that hard fall on my left hip. I crashed into the ground with a seismic thud. For the next six weeks I would carry a jagged purple, black, blue, and at times grotesque green bruise, the size of a small meteorite, on my hip; a memento of lost innocence—a tattooed reminder of just how malicious some kids can be.
I looked up from where I’d fallen to mean stares and crooked adolescent fingers that all pointed at me.
Don’t get the wrong idea; not all the kids in my school were cruel, some—many, in fact—were gentle and kind. But those jackals were as mean as they come and they’re the ones that fill this riverside memory.
I was all alone. Ben was nowhere in sight. He and his friends had wondered farther down river out of earshot. I couldn’t think. It felt like I had swallowed a volcano. If I breathed too deep it would erupt, sending a cloud of ash a hundred miles high, spewing shattered pieces of myself all the way to Santa Fe.
As I scanned my surroundings I felt almost numb. The light on the riverbank was unreal, dream-like. But the pain from the bone-dry stickers that had punctured the flesh of both of my hands when I’d fallen brought me back, making me remember that I was alive. For a kid, crying in front of your peers is never a good idea but at that moment I didn’t have any choice. My tears slowly started to flow. They must have stained my face a sandy brown as they merged with the dust that had come to rest on me.
Freed from my paralysis, I got to my feet and wiped my eyes. If only I could have gone back in time and helped myself through that turbulent time. I would have urged myself to punch and kick Eisenbeis before he got the drop on me. But it was too late for that.
“Never run from predators. It makes them think you’re prey.” I remembered the words of the old fireman that taught Ben and me to box on Sundays behind the firehouse. “Stand your ground!”
So I stood there facing them. But when a rock flew by my right ear I panicked, turned, and ran toward the river. I tripped in the reeds and scampered to my feet. A barrage of stones soon followed. Having to dodge rocks that were thrown at me when I was a kid would become all too common. Ugly scars on my right knee, chin, and in the small of my back were proof that sometimes, just like with Gargantua, the stones hit their mark.
I was trapped: on the one side, my rock-throwing tormentors, on the other the treacherous Rio Grande. A rock hit me hard on the back of my right shoulder. My only escape was the river.
Not even thinking of my parents’ admonition, I ran down the bank into the water. When I was only knee-deep I slipped on green moss. I fell forward. Rocks continued to land all around me. Luckily, the river was at its widest where I had entered. Soon I was out of the range of their rocks, but they continued to hurl insults.
“Kill the Kraken! Kill the Kraken!” They screamed.
I couldn’t believe what was happening. I couldn’t think. I needed to escape. I dove under the murky water, propelling my giant frame far from those verbal harpoons. All that swimming helped to dissolve my panic. Gradually I surfaced, with just my head, eyes, and nose above the surface. I felt like a storybook creature,
