By the end of World War Two the bulk of negative ethnic prejudices had faded from the ranks of Victoria's North Ward Elementary School pupils, so we all usually enjoyed a wearing of the green, though racial stereotyping remained a significant part of life. We had stood shoulder to shoulder singing the anthems of each allied nation, raised the Jack and Ensign during our daily front square parade to honor King George.
Most admired were the Chinese-Canadian students whom we noticed worked harder and smarter. In fact the left rows of Miss McConnell's split fifth-sixth grade class, reserved for the most advanced students, included the totality of it's Oriental content plus one or two Caucasians. Once in awhile I became bright enough to be included in the "Chinese Class" as it became known, the other westerner being a boy who also attended the Chinatown Chinese School. Having finished the Big War, we now held class-discussions of the Communist revolution in China. Of course most favored General Chaing and the Nationalists, for much of the class worried about relatives facing more peril in that Japanese-ravaged nation.
But Paddy, who praised Mau and Stalin, was at least three years older than me, and tougher than the cobblestones of Dublin: while I, having as yet failed to kiss the charm-endowing Blarney Stone, made a perfect target.
As I said, most times Jarnal rode to the rescue when Paddy harassed me. We had shared everything.Each of us had dined at the other's home, and we'd closely bonded during camping and shooting trips. Jarnal Singh thus became my hero and source of knowledge. "You know, we might live in Hindu Town, but we're really Sikhs. Most English don't know that." I remember him explaining. "Our people hail from a hot dusty farm area of India called Punjab. Yes, the same name as Daddy Warbuck's big bodyguard in Orphan Annie. We have a long military record of protection, and the turbans are part of our religion."
Suddenly one day Paddy confronted me in the school basement. When he punched, shoved and belittled me, I impulsively hit him back and ran like the dickens, searching for Jarnal. But he was nowhere to be found. My bodyguard! Seems he returned home ill during lunch. Oh-oh. Oh-NO!
"I'll get you after school!" I heard Paddy's ominous word echoing over my shoulder. Life for me might well terminate at the tender age of ten.
Don't we wish somehow that stories could have a Mayberry kind of ending? You know, Opie stands up to the school bully who somehow backs down cringing like the coward everyone realizes him to be? Unfortunately real life is seldom like that, despite our hopes and prayers. And you can believe I was doing a whole mess of hoping and praying during afternoon class. Miracles however, sort of eluded me this time.
Like a running bug evading a swatter, trying repeatedly to sneak out the back of school, I ultimately found my way lined with upper-echelon student body in great expectation of spectacular slaughter. And there in the center of the road, poised for battle stood Mighty Paddy, green eyes burning hatred through the depths of my timorous soul. The game was up, and I knew it. I had to face obliteration, for a coward dies a thousand deaths. Oh Lord, don't let this hurt too much!
Cold sweat oozed from every pore. Fear jelled my legs. My whole earthly being was thus transfixed when the big fist rammed the left side of my head in tooth-rattling agony, jarring me to the balls of my feet. Whack! Even now I feel the utter horror and humiliation of the moment I pried my body from the pavement and ran the short distance home, the crowd in pursuit. One or two classmates, more in curiosity than sympathy I'm sure, even followed me to my bedroom where I nursed the cruel damage.
Next day I sported a bulging blood-purple shiner that covered the distance between chin and hairline. "Would you like me to even the score for you with that Irish lad my friend?" Jarnal empathized.
"Nah. It's done. He'd only nail me some other time, or place. Thanks, but no thanks."
Paddy's attack had indeed taught me some hard lessons: Before going to war, make sure to have the resources to win or the courage to accept the alternative. Don't rely on friends to fight your battles. And avoid big red-faced, red-haired Sons of the Sod like the plague, unless you're crooning Danny Boy, and wishing them the top of the mornin'!
Or, with a great surge of heart-felt sincerity, you have kissed that ancient Stone of Blarney.
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