Chapter Seven
Stand Up For Yourself
I believe that there are moments in our lives when we are presented with the opportunity to show the world (and ourselves) exactly what we are made of. I find this especially true in our younger years, as we are still learning who we are and growing into the person that we want to be. And, if we actually have any self-identity in our elementary years (other than who our parents tell us we are), then, it is these defining moments that give us that underlining identity.
Often, it is a matter of how we handle controversy, calamity, obstacles, or just an overall bad situation. Of course, handling good fortune with grace, dignity, and charity are, also, self-defining acts, but we, as a whole, are ultimately, defined by the way we overcome adversity. And, in our younger days, that could be as simple as sharing the last homemade chocolate chip cookie with your younger brother (that is, after you dropped it on the floor and then fingered the entire thing with your nasty, dirty, sticky little fingers, or course), or it could be something like, walking to a family friends house, just down the street, to call your mom when you misremembered exactly what time basketball practice was and you ended up alone on the playground, after dark, for thirty loooong minutes.
The truth is, even from the onset of our ability to interpret and understand the meaning of the word “no,” we are provided with the choice of either complying, or disobeying (and in my case, waaayy more disobeying than complying). It is this choice that has allowed us to decide exactly who we are, and it is this freedom of choice that will always continue to produce self-growth. So, when we are presented with some adversary, some mountain to climb, it is solely on our shoulders to decide if we will ascend that peak, if we will quell that adversary, or if we will turn back, turn down, and chose to fight another day.
For the youthful me, besides the rules, and occasionally my older brother and cousins, my biggest nemesis was a white rooster named DEVIL.
Devil was a six-foot-six-and-a-sixth-inch-tall, red-eyed, white feathered, razor-clawed and diamond beaked, demon possessed rooster, whose sole purpose in life was to torment me and the dogs. Although, his tenure was rather short, his reputation, his impact and his legend lives on forever. Giving glory to demon chickens everywhere, he was the talk of the town. He was the headline that sold the newspapers, the story that brought up the ratings, the main attraction — he was the owner of the back yard! (And, I’m quite certain that he is in the Guinness World Records book for the most demon possessed chicken in the world, 1992).
Okay… okay. So, maybe I’m slightly exaggerating his stature. But, I’ll tell you this, he most definitely made me pee my pants more than just a handful of times (and I’m totally okay with that, because back in the early 90’s, all the cool kids were doing it — we were all peeing our pants). I’m pretty sure that he could smell my fear, singling me out from all the other kids (I had to start feeding the chickens in groups for my own safety). Even the dogs were targeted, often tucking their tails and heading for the deck in retreat.
For the most part, a typical day of feeding and gathering the eggs while Devil was on the loose would transpire to something like this:
I would hip-hop happily into the garage with Grandpa to get the dog food. He would shuffle over to the trashcan container full of dry food, scooping out a feed bucket full and walking around to the different dog dishes, dispensing it evenly, while I would open a can of wet dog food and spoon-feed it to the prancing, salivating, weird-noise-making, heathen dogs. This part was a cakewalk. Matter of fact, for this entire process, I was mostly unaware of the dangers that lurked just beyond the safety of Grandma’s deck-door view around the back corner of the garage. For just these few moments, I was in pure country bliss — the smell of the spring lilies sweeping through the air, the sun dancing through the early leaves and flowers of the blooming trees, the sounds of the morning robins looking for those worms, the excitement of our four legged fur-babies as I snuck them extra dog treats while Grandpa had his back turned (I was their favorite) — this was true joy for any young child born to be wild.
But, that all ceased to exist the moment that we turned the corner of the garage and that white devil monster came running towards me. He was, definitely, the fastest chicken alive, with his giant dagger feet, puffed out chest and tornado wings; he was pure horror. His eyes were laser red, burning right through my consciousness and into my dreams — or should I say… my nightmares. His squawk was earth quaking, bringing down the mud huts that Jeremy and I had rebuilt, again, in the woods the evening before. He smelled of rotting flesh — probably, from the bears, lions, and tigers that he would kill just for the sport of it. He was Hell placed on top of chicken legs, here on Earth, scorching the ground as he clawed his way closer to my eyes and throat. He wanted my soul. I could tell by his vicious determination, tearing down trees and smashing boulders just to get within feet of me, right before God would strike him down through the power of Grandpa’s voice, “HEY, GET OUTTA HERE!!”
Without hesitation, I would retreat behind the bunker of Grandpa’s legs. I figured that Devil would have to get through him to get to me. For the most part, this worked. Grandpa would kick and yell at him, keeping him at bay. Trembling, I would cling to Grandpa, always keeping him between me and this lunatic white rooster, who would be piercing my skin with dagger glares as he paced back and forth, looking for his clear shot at my flesh.
We would waddle to the chicken coop, me shaking on Grandpa’s pant leg, him trying to walk and beat back the rooster at the same time. Once inside the coop, we would shut the door, and Grandpa would do his normal thing, as I kept my eyes glued to the entrance, hiding behind the sink, making sure that Devil would not tear it down and eat me.
The way back to the garage was something similar; Grandpa protecting me from this demon rooster, as Devil shrieked his un-pleasantries, trying to pierce our fragile eardrums (I assume that this is why Grandpa has to wear hearing aids now). Once we got back to safety, Grandpa would go ahead and start washing the eggs, while I would go inside to change my underwear.
These were typical days, morning and night, whenever I would venture too far from the safety of the front porch, or garage, or if I just got too close to his sector of fire; he would let me have it, the whole 9 yards.
It only took a couple of times of getting my shins clawed and gashed open to realize that this son-of-a-bitch wasn’t kidding (and, what can I say, I must’ve been a slow learner way back then). But, by the 3rd or 4th time of soiling myself in a desperation run to the front of the garage, fearing for my life, with the Devil, himself, flapping and screeching on my heels, I knew that this tranquil country life would never be the same as long as he roamed this beautiful patch of land.
It hit me hard, not being happy in a place meant for happiness. For a few weeks I avoided the chicken coop by myself. I stopped eating candy, I snapped all of my magic sticks over my knee and started binge drinking Mountain Dew sitting in my whitey-tighties on the couch. I stopped returning phone calls from my friends, gave up on doing my chores, I didn’t really shower or even do my hair, and I rarely climbed even the smallest of trees.
I was depressed. I was sad, and I succumbed to the bullying of this demon chicken. I was beaten by the Devil himself. There was no hope for me, stumbling around the house, blacked-out drunk off of Mountain Dew, destroying my toys in anger, and cursing the day that Grandpa brought home that batch of hens and white rooster from Trader Days.
I was in a dark place in my young boyhood life. I couldn’t go up to Grandma and Grandpa’s without fearing for my life. I couldn’t leave the house because there was no way of telling where Devil was hiding, waiting for my meaty backside and big juicy calves to take one step outside of the back door so that he could snatch me up and feast upon me until he had his fill.
Lying in my bed wide awake one night, after peering through a crack in the blinds for several minutes because I thought that I had heard some evil clucking outside of my window, I rolled over and stared at the ceiling for hours thinking about life (okay, minutes — maybe even just a few seconds). But, right then and there, I decided that I was no longer going to let this A-hole of a chicken dictate my life. I was no longer going to let fear stop me from living. And, I damn sure wasn’t going to let some demon rooster bully me around; it was time to make my stand!
For the next several hours (again, minutes, or probably just a few seconds), I devised my master plan: in the morning, I was going to stand toe-to-claw with the Devil, and I wasn’t coming back home until I was either victorious or dead….
My alarm rang violently, foreshadowing the fight to come. I jerked from my bed and smashed it against the wall. I woke up a new man-boy-kid and I wasn’t going to put up with anything, not even the soft rock hits of the only radio station that would come in clearly on my alarm clock radio. My feet hit the floor with anticipation, anxious and ready to kick some tail-feathers. I floated out to the kitchen to pour myself a big bowl of Wheaties. I scarfed down the first bite with manly chomps. It was disgusting! I mean, seriously, who would knowingly create such a bland and awful tasting cereal and market it towards children, anyway? So, I scooped a few hefty spoonfuls overtop of this nastiness, and ate the rest of it like a champ. I tossed the bowl into the sink with a clink and a clamor, and then, ran into my brother’s room to grab as many pairs of jeans as I figured that I could squeeze into.
After 5 minutes of struggling to put on 5 pairs of jeans, and then another 5 minutes of struggling to put on my old pair of boots, I was door slamming my way outside and waddling though the backyard when I heard my mother’s angry tone.
“Jacob! Get back in here! Where do you think you’re going?! She yelled out the back door.
My heart skipped a beat and I froze. Thanks Mom! Way to ruin my surprise attack! I thought to myself as I turned to face her in her bathrobe and bed-head hair.
“Umm,” in a quiet voice, “up to Grandpa’s.”
“Not until you clean up your mess in the kitchen, and clean up all those clothes in your room,” she shot back.
(Look, in my defense, it’s not exactly easy to decide on what shirt you’re going to wear into battle. But, appropriately, I chose a camo one.)
I headed towards her with my head down and walking as I would imagine a cowboy would after a long, long horse ride though the back-country of the old West — my legs wide and stiff.
“Did you brush your teeth?” She asked, as I passed her in the doorway.
“Noooo,” I admitted, defeated.
“Well, you’re brushing your teeth before you go anywhere. What are you, a heathen?” She scolded. “And why do you have on so many pairs of jeans? Are those Jeremy’s good jeans?!”
Oh, no! I thought. I should have spent a little more time perfecting this plan. “I’ll change ‘em,” I said, as I struggled to pull them off, pair by pair.
So, once I cleaned up the kitchen and my room, brushed my teeth, and changed out of Jeremy’s good jeans and into his old ones, I was right back outside, scooting my tight legs up the hill to find glory on the battlefield.
Crouching as low as my stiff legs would allow me, I crept from tree to tree evaluating Devil’s defenses. But, his sentry hens must have spotted me ducking behind the cherry tree, because they gave warning with a flurry of chatter. Only 20 yards away, he strutted to edge of the small hill between the back of the garage and the front of the chicken coop, looking out to see what prey he would take today. I waited for him to turn away, and then darted (well, maybe not darted — more like scampered away like a wounded animal) towards the pines and out of sight. I would have to work my way around the back side of the house, sticking to the backs of the trees around the house, and then, down by the roosting pines, to the other side of the garage. With their attention diverted, perhaps, just maybe, I would be able to sneak in from behind enemy lines. It was risky, but I had to try it.
I broke free from the cover of the pines and into the driveway, tiptoeing, aiming for the back of the house. But the gravel was noisy and the dogs were keen. They broke out into a riot of Hey, Max! What’s that noise? Who’s there? You’re barking and I don’t know why you’re barking, but I’m going to bark, too! I tried to calm them down with a friendly high-pitched “It’s ME! Shut up!” But, they were having none of it — barking in hysteria at the small-bodied, big-legged-kid in their driveway.
I dashed my straight and tired legs around the side of the house before Grandma and Grandpa could see me and blow my already-blown cover.
Grandma opened the screeching deck storm door and let it slam shut. The commotion was getting the hens rowdy around back.
“Who’s there?” She asked. “Jake, is that you?” She yelled over top of the still confused dogs. “Max! Prissy! Shut up! You want a treat?” (She often tries to bribe them.)
I let out a soft whistle from bushes on the other side of the house as she quieted the dogs with half of a doggie treat each. She looked my way.
“Jake, what are you doing in my flower bushes? Get out of there!” She scolded.
This isn’t going, at all, as I had planned, I thought.
I got out of the flower bushes and put my finger to my lips. “Shhh, I’m playing army with the white rooster,” I said convincingly.
“You’re what? Playing army with the white rooster?”
“Yeah, shh,” I said again, trying not to look the least bit guilty of anything at all.
“Oh, okay. Well, come get some breakfast when you’re done,” she insisted with her hands on her hips, and then turned around and went back inside.
I got my head back into the game and crouched to the corner of the shed behind the garage, taking a peek at where the rooster might attack from. But, I couldn’t see him. He was hiding somewhere, waiting for me to walk into the open.
I knew this. I knew that I was walking right into an ambush. But, I didn’t care. It had to be done. I had had enough of this bully pushing me around and attacking me. I wasn’t going to allow it, anymore.
I stepped out from the corner of the shed with my head high and my chest out, stumbling on heavy, shaky legs. The hens got right to it. They went into a frenzy of clucking and squawking. I took a ninja stance; I knew that he’d be on me in a flash.
I took another step. Nothing. I inched my way forward, again, keeping my eyes on the coop straight ahead, no more than 15 yards in front of me. Still… nothing. For a brief moment, I had the notion that maybe he got chicken and ran away — that, maybe, he saw my perfect ninja-warrior-fighting stance, with my thumbs tucked down on my “Karate-chop” hands, my legs as wide as 5 pairs of jeans would allow them to go, my left leg in front and slightly bent, and my face growling with ninjaness; I was, surely, too scary to take on.
But, as I ninja’d my way forward, out of the corner of my eye, I caught a flash of white just as I heard the thunder of flapping wings and stirred up leaves. He was on me like flies to a dead carcass.
I’ll be honest, I panicked. I started swinging karate chops and ninja kicks violently into thin air. He was quick, clawing and pecking at my shins. It was dull and blunt, but it knocked me back, anyway.
With a few feet of distance between us, he let out a battle cry worthy of putting fear into the heart of any man, and then, he came at me, again, claws first. I back peddled. He followed. I let out a cry. He screeched and dug into my leg, stabbing his beak savagely into the first few layers of jeans. The pain was real. My confidence was lacking. I flung my leg hard enough to send him flying off of me for a second. But, again, he came at me, puffed up bigger than I had ever seen.
Our eyes met — his, red like the blood that was racing through my veins, and mine, as wide as the barn owl that once landed on the top of the garage; I was seeing everything. I could see the evil raging inside of him, the fire burning red hot in his soul. I could see that it was going to be either him or me — that only one of us was going to walk away from this fight victorious.
Time slowed down. He was closing the 4-foot gap between us. His wings were out, his claws glistening in the morning sunlight, his beak covered in dry blood from battles of the past; I saw it all.
Something stirred inside of me. I knew that this was the moment where I would have to make my move — that he might very well swallow me whole, if I did not man-up and strike back with an iron boot.
In that split second of self-realization, I saw my chance for glory. I shifted my weight to my front foot, cocked back my other leg, and just before his claws could rip through another layer of Jeremy’s (hopefully old) jeans, I swung it forward with all of the ninja might that I could muster. I made solid contact with his rock hard chest, sending him and feathers 10 feet into the air. But, he landed on his feet, paused, and regained his composure.
I felt warm with revenge, thirsty for justice.
He charged, again. And, again, I booted him into the air. But, this time, I closed the distance, and, to his surprise, I let him have it, again, rolling him down the hill squealing. I gave him no room to recover and pounced on him again, kicking him towards the coop. Dazed, he staggered to his feet and stood there, looking me up and down, measuring me, sizing me up, trying to decide if his life was worth it, if he wanted any more of this.
I took 2 steps towards him, and he backed up. So, I took 3. He let out a fearful howl and ran through the back gate of the chicken coop, for safety. From there, he clucked on in defeat, nursing his pride from behind the wire fence, ducking his head with respect, and granting me this glorious victory.
From then on, I would feed and gather the eggs without any further problems from Devil and his demon ways. And, not much longer after that, Grandpa decided to give him, and a handful of hens, away to a family friend who wanted to start raising chickens himself. I would never see Devil, again.
You know, I’ll never forget that day. The day that I stood up to something evil and backed it down into the hole from which it came. The day that I finally said, No, White Rooster, you will not bully me, anymore! You will not control my life! And you will not stand in the way of my happiness!
Look, there will be times in our lives where we are force and left with no choice but to stand toe-to-toe with something evil. That’s the struggle of life: Good vs. Evil. Yes, it will be scary and terrifying, it will take all you have just to muster up the courage to stand your ground. But, that’s what life is — finding the courage to go on… to find your happiness and to hold onto it… to stand firm in the face of adversity, to rise up, to carry on, to wipe clean the dirt from your face and smile with gritty teeth, knowing that it will take more of a blow than that to keep you down.
With good in your heart, and the strength of your will, you can ascend any mountain, navigate any obstacle, and achieve any dreams that you desire.