My most vivid early school memory was at Elm Park Elementary School. I was in kindergarten and being bullied every day by one behemoth sixth-grade white boy. Every day, he grabbed me by the shirt, punched me in the chest, or slapped me upside my head and demanded that I give him my lunch money. He reminded me of my father and grandfather, who victimized me freely without fear of repercussion. I hated going to school and did everything I could to avoid being alone on the playground. When the bell rang, I ran as fast as I could to my classroom. Carl Lewis, former Olympic gold medalist in the hundred-meter dash, had nothing on me.
One day, as the school bell was about to ring, I peeked around the corner to see my bully. He was scanning the schoolyard, clearly looking for me. I ducked back against the building, heart pounding. At this time, we lived less than twenty yards away, right across the street from school. Ma was washing dishes and caught a glimpse through the window of me holding up the walls of the school. She yelled, "Douglas, what are you doing, boy? Get your butt to school; you don't want to be late!"
I put one shaking finger over my mouth, but it was too late. There he was, yanking my finger away from my mouth, grabbing me by the shirt, slapping me upside the head, and rifling through my pockets for my lunch money. I burst into tears and fell to my knees, but that day, the right person saw everything. In what seemed like seconds, Ma ran out of our apartment in her robe, hair uncombed, wielding a broom over her head. She grabbed my hand and ran after my bully on the playground. Without a second’s hesitation, she whacked him with the broom, yelling in rhythm with each hit, “Don't you ever put your hands on my son or take his lunch money! Do you hear me?” She let him have it. I watched in awe, thinking Serves him right, jack this fool up, Ma!—though a part of me worried he might turn his wrath on her.
My bully threw his arms up to block the thrusts of the broom. “Stop it!” he cried. “Get off me!” At one point, I even remember him saying, “Here, take the money back, take the money back!”
Later on that night when I was at home watching television, my mother came into the room with a determined, angry look on her face. She looked me intensely in the eye and told me to never back down from someone trying to get one over on me—even if I knew it was a losing fight.
“I did not raise no chump, no sucker-punk of a son,” she said. “You go down defending yourself. You may not win, but you will gain the respect of many. You hear me?”
I nodded, and something in me rose to the surface—some feeling of strength or pride, a resolution never to let others push me over again.
After that day, everyone knew the son of Elsa Luffborough Mensah. We spent the rest of the week meeting with school officials and my bully's parents to try to resolve the matter. Ma was the nicest lady you could expect to meet, but if you messed with her children, she turned into a feral beast. She was as unforgiving of my bully’s parents as she was on him, making it perfectly clear that their son was to stay far away from me. To my surprise, it turned out I was not the only one he was victimizing at school. In fact, many other students and parents came forward with similar tales once my story was out. From that day forward, my bully never bothered me again.
I learned a lot from my mother that day about standing up to others in moments of adversity. I learned about courage and facing my fears head on. My mother was the type of woman (and still is, for that matter) who carried the Bible in one hand and a belt in the other. She lived a crazy life, and those who knew her knew not to mess with her. She had to fight for everything she had, and that was one thing my mom was good at—fighting for the right to live a life she deserved, the lives her children deserved. I vowed to make her proud.
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