We Dont Need Another Hero – The Captain Australia Story (Chapter Three)

Chapter One:  http://www.captainaustralia.net/we-dont-need-another-hero-the-captain-australia-story-chapter-one/

Chapter Two:  http://www.captainaustralia.net/we-dont-need-another-hero-the-captain-australia-story-chapter-two/

Footnote & Disclaimer
All elements of this story reflect the true experiences of Captain Australia, without embellishment.  Certain facts, identities and timelines have been distorted in the interest of preventing the criminal underworld from piecing together my secret identity, and targeting my family for reprisals.  Although distorted, please understand that this is my life, and not a work of fiction.  This story is not for children or recommended for anyone under the age of 18 years.
Your friend,
Captain Australia

Chapter Three:  The Teenage Years

After years of nomadic travel, we settled in Brisbane when I was just about to begin the transition from childhood to puberty.  Initially, we lived in a caravan inside the garage of my step-fathers’ family home.  I would have been about 10 years old, my two brothers around 7 and 1.  Although we were ‘dirt poor’, we were happy and were trying to put down roots.

For the first time ever, I found myself attending one school consistently for a few years.  I actually made some friends, and had a fairly stable life.  I’m not sure if my stepfather or mother were working, or on social security benefits, but we were able to move out of the caravan and rent a house of our own.  Although their relationship was rocky and drugs and alcohol were always on the fringe, threatening our happiness, the next few years were a peaceful and stable time in my life.

At school, I met Ben (I’m sorry, but I’m changing names so I don’t compromise my secret identity).  I’ll give you some detail on this as it is one of the defining relationships in my young life.

One day, I was running around in the playground, a young boy of 10 or so, all elbow-scabs and enthusiasm, when I heard hoarse sobbing from somewhere nearby.  I had been swinging across monkey-bars, so I dropped to the ground and moved toward the nearby building to check it out.

The school was a set of renovated old “Queenslanders”, wooden homes set up on a second story above stumps, under which they’d set up benches and play areas where kids could enjoy themselves in shade, out of the blazing Aussie sun.

I stepped into these shadows, seeing a huddle of kids (boys mostly, laughing and jostling), with the wretched heart-broken sobbing coming from the middle of them as a constant undertone to their babble.  I stepped forward, craning my neck, wondering what was going on.  In the middle of the circle, sitting huddled against the wall was a young boy with ruffled blonde hair, a kid I didn’t know, I think he was new.

“Re-tard, re-tard, Ben is a re-tard”, chimed a cruel, deriding voice from my left, followed by a burst of laughter from the group.  I realised that they weren’t helping the crying person or trying to cheer him up – they were openly tormenting him.

I pressed through the circle, looking at the vapid, gleeful faces of the children with open confusion.  I liked these kids.  I was friends with some of these kids.  Why were they hassling this new guy ?  I felt a little like a computer being asked to write a poem about Love.  I simply couldn’t process the look of gleeful vicious hate on these kids’ faces.  I just couldn’t figure out how superficially friendly, happy-go-lucky kids could turn so suddenly into an ugly mob.  (I still grapple with the psychology behind this).

“Leave him alone!”, I shouted, kneeling down to help the sobbing kid.  He shuffled back into a foetal position, looking up at me with open fear that even then broke my heart a little bit.

At that moment, some kid shoved me from behind, and I fell face forward to the ground, with raucous laughter erupting from the group.  I felt myself starting to cry as I struggled to my feet, turning on my assailants and blurting the most dire of childhood threats, “Leave me alone !  I’ll tell !  I’ll tell on you !”

More derisive laughter from the group.  At this stage of my boyhood, I already knew how it felt to be an outsider, always the new-guy, I was kind of used to it and could be quite happy with my own company if necessary.  I didn’t really understand it at the time, but now I was going a step further: I was declaring myself as separate to the main herd (which is a great strategy to become the school punching-bag during your teenage years – most teenagers opt to find a niche and stick to it, as there is safety in numbers).

At that point, the bell rang and the gaggle of tormenting kids began to disperse (after hurling a few more names at me).  After they had gone, I felt a soft tugging at my sleeve.  It was Ben (who I had forgotten once the hostility re-directed toward me), looking at me with open gratitude and concern as he asked in his slightly-slurry voice “You okay ?”

It was that moment that we became friends for life.

-o0o–o0o–o0o-

You see, Ben had a mild to moderate form of cerebral palsy.  It affected his intellectual development and motor skills.  Otherwise, he was an ordinary, gregarious, good natured kid.  He always loved music: in the primary school years it was The Rolling Stones and Dire Straits, although in the later teenage years he went absolutely crazy for rap music.  I have him to thank for putting me on to hip-hop, which is simply fantastic music to listen to while you exercise or jog.

The problem is, kids at school are like any other herd animal, they seek safety in numbers, and they ruthlessly try to kill any stragglers or weaker members of the herd.  (Perhaps this applies not just to kids, but to almost any social click).

The primary school years weren’t so bad, but there was a constant, low-grade teasing.  It’s interesting that after I declared myself as his friend, the teasing shifted to focus largely on me, more-so than Ben.  (I think, in the herd mentality, that someone who is different or challenges the pecking order is even more dangerous than someone who is weak).

For example, Ben and I would be walking across the playground, carrying our lunches and a couple of toys toward the sandpit (where we spent many a happy hour simulating Imperial invasions on Tatooine – you could always rely on Ben for enthusiasm when playing, even if he was a bit slow with some of the detailed stuff).  Kids would shout out scornful names, but almost always directed at me.

We could be sitting, playing with Star Wars figurines, when some kid would run up, hurl a handful of sand at my face and laugh “Ha Ha !  Retards !”, but not actually interfere with Ben at all.  I didn’t realise it at the time, but somehow I had become Ben’s social and psychological shield (a role in retrospect that I would happily and willingly have played).

Honestly though, I didn’t always handle it well.

Sometimes I would explode into tears, or yell at other kids.  You have to understand that being a victim doesn’t sit well with me.  I’m not proud of the tears, but I felt mistreated, and was very resentful.  Not just of the kids tormenting and rejecting me, but also of Ben for being the way that he was, and having it drag me down socially.  I loved him, he was my friend, but some days I felt like I was carrying a burden and I did not do it with grace.

It wasn’t until much later that I came to terms with things philosophically, so please don’t imagine a boyhood Captain Australia bringing peace and decency to the schoolyard like some kind of Child Galahad, it wasn’t that way at all.  It was often fun, often adventurous (being so simple and generally enthusiastic, Ben was a great companion to go on imaginary safaris, or to playmate for star wars and other games, and he didn’t care at all about winning or losing – it was all about friendship & sharing & fun).  That said, it was also often ugly & petty.

Especially the teenage years, when we went to High School.

With his borderline condition, Ben had the option of attending a special school or a public school, and since he had made friends in the public system, and money was a factor, his mother chose the public option.  So when we timidly ventured into the jungles of the Australian high school, it was together, although we didn’t have many of the same classes.

Unfortunately, many others from our school progressed to the same high-school, so it wasn’t exactly a fresh-start.  Reputationally and socially, I found myself in quite a similar position to primary school, the outsider with the retarded ‘boyfriend’.  At times I would resent Ben for what he was doing to me, putting me constantly in the role of protector and mentor – but in my secret heart of hearts, I know I got more from that relationship than he ever possibly could.  Somehow, those years with Ben helped to unlock me, opening up my compassion and my courage in ways that might not have happened otherwise.

You see, it might seem that we had an unequal relationship, but it’s simply not true.  Yes, I taught Ben.  I helped him with his homework.  I could make him giggle (God, if you could just hear it when I’d get him giggling, remembering back to lazy afternoons making him cackle laughter – it ranks as one of the top 10 things I’ve heard in my lifetime, next to the chortles of my own son.  When I make my little infant boy giggle, I hear echoes of the pure joy of Ben’s laugh in that simple, innocent sound).

My point is, Ben gave back his own brand of unwavering friendship and support – and simply by needing me, he gave me a constant source of feedback demonstrating just how lovely, how fulfilling it is to give to someone else, to make their life better.  That changed me, made me better.  It unlocked my potential for decency and compassion and acceptance.  He made me a finer person than I could possibly have become on my own.

Ben was my friend.  My best friend.   I loved him and am grateful to have known him.

-o0o–o0o–o0o-

At this stage, home life was becoming increasingly erratic.

One day after school, Bennie and I walk in to the living-room, with the happy plan of making a couple of bowls of 2 minute noodles and watching “Monkey Magic” on TV.  (Man, I loved that show.  MONKEY!).  We pass through the living-room, and stop in outright shock.  There, writhing on the sofa and passionately kissing another woman, was … my mother.

“What she doin’ ?”, Ben turned to me and asked with open curiosity.

It wasn’t the first weird thing I’d seen from her, but she was taking things to a whole new level.  The thing that truly bugs me is that she knew we were there, she knew my innocent, simple friend was with me, and yet she didn’t stop.  It was like she was trying to liberate herself, but by giving a deliberate performance.  That kind of sums my mother up, actually.  It’s not that she was actively cruel or deliberately neglectful, she was just so caught up in her own journey that everything else came second.  At the time I didn’t know what gay was, and as usual there wasn’t much help & support from the parental department.

I cleared my throat, and responded to Ben, “They’re just playing … let’s go”

We continued into the kitchen and made our snack.  It never occurred to me that I might have set a new benchmark for ‘playing’ with my simple friend.  Thankfully, he never tried to play with me in the same way.

Importantly, that encounter did pre-cursor a partial disintegration of our family unit.  A few weeks later, I was in my bedroom when I heard muffled sounds of a struggle.  My step-father was wrestling with my mother, violently clutching one of her breasts while he grappled forcibly with her.  Without thinking I grabbed a heavy book from a nearby shelf and launched myself at him and started battering him about the head and shoulders with it, roaring “Leave my Mum ALONE!”.

The next day he was gone.

The drugs and erratic behaviour escalated after that.  My mother declared herself a full-blown lesbian, and started to hang out with (and date) a long series of drug-addicted militant lesbian characters.  Although three parts funny and one part sad, it didn’t really influence my development as Captain Australia, so I won’t go into any great depth about that phase.

Actually, that isn’t completely true: I hesitate to mention it (please don’t think I’m crazy), but the cycle of years of exposure to my mothers’ lesbian friends and partners did in fact give me two abilities that I think are worth mentioning.  Firstly, I have a finely tuned ‘gaydar’.  (I know, I know .. but I’m serious).  I promise you, I have an almost flawless ability to detect a lesbian.  Secondly, I have a similar sense for victims of sexual abuse.

I know.

“What are you saying, Captain ?!  Are you trying to say that all lesbians are victims of sexual abuse ?”

No, I’m not.  For some women, it’s a healthy lifestyle choice.  But from direct experience, I do hold the view that many of these women had unhealthy power relationships with their fathers, and patterned this on through the experiences with men in their life.  And it’s true, men can be total wretches, making ‘changing teams’ an appropriate and reasonable choice, especially if you have a chromosomal pre-disposition.

I’ll park that topic now, I don’t want to do any further damage to my credibility.

So, continuing on, we moved house a few times, my mother had a cycle of unhappy and sometimes violent relationships – but before I move the clock forward, I’ll pause briefly to describe another significant event: it was that year that I discovered martial arts.

-o0o–o0o–o0o-

I was due to meet Ben for lunch (we had our own little area underneath a tree near the basketball courts, it was out of the way so few people bothered us).  Ben wasn’t there, and after waiting for ten minutes, alarm bells started ringing in my mind, so I went off in search of him.

I found him in one of the Boys Toilets, sitting on the floor in one of the stalls with his pants down.  His hair was all wet, and he was crying.  Amazingly, I realised that kids were still walking in and out, using the facilities and leaving – not a single one stopping to help him.  I still don’t understand that, even today.

“What happened ?”, I asked him, feeling an uncomfortable mix of rage, sorrow, pity and contempt.

He explained that three or four bigger boys had taken him, put his lunch into the toilet bowl, and then ordered him to eat it out of the toilet.  They had then grabbed his hair and forced his face into the toilet, flushing several times while he squirmed in panic.  He was confused and blubbering while he told me this story, so it took several minutes to get it out of him, a deep boiling rage slowly growing within me as I saw their laughing cruelty and abuse in my minds’ eye.

Ben was a little guy.  You see, sufferers of cerebral palsy don’t develop as well as other kids, they tend to be lanky, and struggle with co-ordination – many having slight tremors and spasticity.  (Ben was like this).  He would have had no chance resisting even one of those bigger boys, let alone a group.  Not only did they take amusement beating and terrifying an innocent kid, they chose to pick on the weakest possible kid at school, someone with a good heart who only wanted to be friends and share with anybody.

(It didn’t occur to me until years later that I may have been the target all along, and Ben merely the bait).

I can’t describe the rage that went through me then, it was like a fire burning through my young mind.  I was appalled and disgusted and so angry that it felt like my nerves were on fire.

I was on autopilot as I helped Ben pull his pants up and gather his belongings together, and as soon as it was done I stormed out of there without a word and stalked across the playground.  I strode across the oval where teams were playing football and other sports, walking right through the middle of their games, oblivious to their angry yells.  I marched right up to the small group of older boys that I knew to be responsible for the assault on Ben.

One I remember in particular was from Czechoslovakia, and had the reputation of being a boxer.  He was 15 or 16 years old, and very burly (not sure whether he was just naturally big, or did bodybuilding).  He was the archetype of every school bully that you can imagine: big, strong, sly, selfish, smug.  I stormed right up to him and shoved him in the chest, snarling, “You shit !  You bastard shit !”

I wasn’t sure what reaction I was hoping for, but laughter wasn’t really it.  The big guy (lets call him Damien) easily kept me at arms length as I flurried ineffectively at his arms and shoulders.  That ominous circle of high-school onlookers began to gather around us, shielding us from the eyes and authority of teachers.  I was oblivious at this point, I was incensed and wanted nothing more than to pummel this human piece of scum until his crying drowned out the echo of my friends’ pitiful tears.

“Oh, did your boyfriend not like his shit sandwich?”, Damien murmured in a soft voice, bringing chortles from his bully friends.  If thoughts could kill, I would have reached out with my mind and stopped his clock, anything to wipe the smug expression from his face.

“Fuck you !  You fuck !”, I remember yelling, starting to cry as I continued to batter him ineffectually.  “Kill you, you fuck !”

That’s when the punches started flying.  Hook.  Jab.  Uppercut.  I can’t really remember much, just some girl screaming “Stop !  He’s bleeding!”, then spending the afternoon in the infirmary getting stitches in my split lip.  The stitches hurt terribly, apparently they couldn’t give me local anaesthetic because it would deform the shape of my lip while they tried to stitch it together.

(I do remember a certain hollow sadness when my mother didn’t notice or comment on the stitches over the days that followed, but by then I was used to solving my own problems).

At assembly the following morning, there were chortles all around as I took my seat.  I had a bandage on the side of my face covering nasty bruising and scrapes, and big ugly stitches down my lip.  I sat stoically, next to my friend Ben, staring forward, anger and resentment burning through me

-o0o–o0o–o0o-

Later that that afternoon, I took my friend Ben and we went to a nearby martial arts school, one that taught Karate, Judo and Jujitsu.  The instructor was a burly Australian man with an enormous belly and a faux Elvis hairdo.  I can’t remember the monthly fee, I think it was about $15 – but at that stage I was making good tips from a job selling newspapers from the street corner so was able to finance myself, and convince Ben’s mother that it was worthwhile for him.

We attended that school 6 days per week for the next three years.

-o0o–o0o–o0o-

My mothers’ first suicide attempt took place in the first year of high school.

I came home one evening after martial arts practice to find my middle brother Craig crying hysterically.  He was nine years old at the time and had to go to a soccer match, and couldn’t wake mum.  I found her lying in bed, immobile, an open bottle of sleeping pills on the bed beside her.  Thankfully she was still breathing.

I wasn’t sure about police or hospital (mostly out of concern for the brothers being separated into foster homes or something), so I ran down the street and collected a neighbour who was a nurse.  Craig was wailing that he was hungry and that he didn’t want to miss soccer: so I made dinner for my kid brother and took him to his soccer match, while the neighbour looked after my mother, who recovered the following morning.

Things were going badly at home, my mothers drug habit was escalating, she was clearly rudderless and drifting.  The only thing that seemed to matter to her was ‘chasing the dragon’, dreams had become her food, and nothing in the real world held her attention for long.  To make matters worse, my former stepfather would come around, drunk and surly (living echoes of my grandfather).  I remember one night when he was standing on the street outside, insisting that he take my youngest brother away with him, roaring in a drunken frenzy.  I remember smiling comfortingly at the little boy (then aged around 5 and totally trusting of me above all others), taking him by the hand and leading him into my bedroom, instructing him to lock the door and telling him only to open to me if he hears me singing “teenage mutant ninja turtles”.

I remember telling him everything was okay, everything would be fine, he should trust me and go and watch the TV really loud.  In my heart of hearts I knew I was lying, everything was about five miles south of okay and still drifting.  Hopelessness, anger, fear – these were common emotions for me at the time, and I think the process of grappling with them played an important role in forging me into the man I am today.  I continue to believe that adversity is the crucible in which Heroes are forged, so without this dark period in my life, I may not have the compassion and decency that I hold at my core today.

I recall making a deliberate effort to calm myself.  I was learning that anger was a destructive and fruitless emotion, and that it only served to minimise your chances of a successful outcome – even if things did escalate to violence.  Making my mind cold, I went down and confronted my stepfather on the sidewalk outside our home.  Me, a lanky child standing in front of this dishevelled, enraged man, looking him calmly in the eye and softly ordering him, “There is no way you’re taking him while you’re drunk, get out of here”.

His fist swung out in a huge haymaker, which I easily avoided, and he stumbled in a graceless pirouette, falling to the sidewalk and breaking his nose.  He then clambered to his feet and struggled away, growling vile threats.  (Although we’ve reconciled somewhat, to this day I think he still believes I broke his nose, although I never actually laid a hand on him).

-o0o–o0o–o0o-

Life at this stage was quite terrible for me.  I threw myself into the martial arts, obtaining my black belts after about 18 months.  Ben also really enjoyed the training too, although obviously his progress was much slower.  Our family home was raided by the police on two separate occasions, the low-point for me was when men with guns searched through my room and found my stash of Playboy magazines hidden below my sock drawer.

School was a bit more stable.  I think Ben and I carried ourselves with a new confidence, so other kids were less likely to hassle us.  We had even formed a few other noteworthy friendships, and had our own little group now where we would hang out and listen to rap music.  It makes me smile to remember it, sitting around bopping our head to groups like NWA, Public Enemy and Ice T.

I laugh to think back to some of those days.  We’d roll out a big piece of brown cardboard, and have ‘rap dance’ competitions.  Ben was classic.  His movements were shaky, understated and he really struggled with his co-ordination, but his enthusiasm as he dropped to the ground and tried to do a backspin would make me laugh.  I know that sounds like I was laughing at him, but it’s not like that.  Ben was my friend, and he knew he looked awkward and funny – and he enjoyed making us laugh.  When people laugh at me as Captain Australia, I sometimes cast my mind back to Ben and it reminds me that even if someone is laughing at you – it’s still laughter, which is a good thing.  It brightens the world, even when it’s at your expense.

-o0o–o0o–o0o-

One day I was on the way to meet my friends when I inadvertently walked through the middle of an impromptu cricket game between the Czechoslovakian bullies that beat me so badly a year or so ago.  I just continued walking, ignoring their cries of “Hey Dickhead!”, until I felt Damien’s heavy hand on my shoulder.

(“Here we go again”, I remember thinking to myself).

Luckily, there were teachers around, so there was no risk of a fight breaking out, however I once more found myself face-to-face with this smiling thug, who was now 17 or 18, and if anything even bigger and more formidable.  In fact, he should have finished school already, but was a year behind, dwarfing even his classmates in their senior year.

“Come to the oval this weekend”, he said, smiling, “We fight again, okay ?”

“I don’t want to fight you”, was my reply, as I turned and resumed walking to my friends, ignoring the sounds of laughter and chicken clucking behind me.

That weekend, I got a phone call.

It was Damien, and he mentioned that he had my middle brother Craig with him and they were hanging out at the school oval.  My brother was 12 years old now, and had just started high school, it hadn’t even occurred to me that they might mess with him.  It was clear that he thought they were being his friend, and in turn he was trying to win the approval of these older boys (now in their final year).  But he didn’t know what he was in for – it was also clear to me from Damien’s tone that he had orchestrated me into two simple choices:

Show up, and my little brother would watch me take a beating

Don’t show up, and my little brother would take the beating on my behalf.

You see, Craig and I were never that close, that’s how this crept up on me under my radar, we didn’t really hang out at school much.  I didn’t realise at the time, but I’m certain now that he saw me as a father figure, even though we were only a few years apart in age.  Years later, at John’s 18th birthday, I took both brothers out on the town and we had a great night of drinking and laughter.  But it ended with Craig becoming maudlin, crying pitifully.  As I held him, I remember him blurting “You can’t be my daddy any more…”.  That opened my eyes to the fact that he’d seen me that way all along: he needed a father and a mentor, and I failed him.

Even though I wasn’t armed with these insights as a teenager, it would be a cold day in Hell before I’d leave my brother (or anyone) to those thuggish jackals to take punches meant for me.  I grabbed my jacket, and half an hour later, I once more I found myself in the school oval, surrounded by a rowdy circle of teenagers, facing off against Damien.

It was a real event, I think that word must have gone around the student body, because this was more than a loose circle of kids, there would have been a few hundred there in total.  When I arrived they were hanging around in small groups, playing various ball games – but as soon as I got there they gathered in a loose but ever tightening circle around me: like a slowly closing noose.

So there I was: the ring of kids were making gleeful comments and taunts, laughing at the prospect of me getting my arse handed to me again (my own brother standing passively amidst the crowd, looking a little confused).  Damien was pacing back and forth in front of me – he’d taken off his shirt, and was clearly enjoying being the centre of attention.  Perhaps in his mind it was all harmless fun, like a wrestling match on TV, but I don’t think so.  Even though still just a boy, I think he was touched by cruelty & selfishness, and intended to take genuine pleasure from beating me up (again).

But it didn’t play out that way.

The crowd of kids hushed as the smiling thug waded in toward me, fists raised in a traditional boxers’ guard, ready to pound my face into red mush again.  I let him move in, not even raising my arms to defend myself.  I felt calm, clear-headed.  I had been hurt before, I was not afraid.  As he closed and cocked his arm back to throw his first hook, I kicked him square in the testicles with full force.  He fell to his knees with an almost comical look of surprise, then I lashed out with two quick, mid-power punches, sending him flying to the dirt below.  I then grabbed my brother by the arm, and turned and stalked through the circle of kids, which parted to let me pass like a school of fish around a shark.

I’m not proud of how that fight went, but I still smile when I think back to it.

I actually never had any more problems in high-school after that fight.  I sometimes worried about retaliation, but it didn’t happen.  I didn’t knock him out or do any serious harm, but I remember stories circulating amongst the kids at school about just how fast I was, and how with two punches I’d knocked Damien out cold for several minutes.  I think that by besting the worst bully in school, I’d secured my place as someone to be respected.

This was an important lesson to me about the mindset of a bully.  (And, as I’ve become Captain Australia, I’ve come to see most criminals in the same way).  Ultimately, a bully is a coward at heart – if they sense that you are weak they will take advantage of you fully and ruthlessly.  But as soon as you turn around and demonstrate that you are strong, they leave you alone.

If they could have ambushed me in numbers, I suspect they might have tried, but thankfully it never happened.

-o0o–o0o–o0o-

Not that I gave it much thought: the situation at home was clearly escalating.  My mother was just plain losing it, and I was struggling just to keep everybody fed, bills paid and the family together.  There were two events that sum up this strange period in my life, both deeply disturbing, and both playing some kind of a notable role in forging me into the Hero I would later become.

My mother had been regularly dating a girlfriend at that stage, and had somehow convinced herself that they wanted to parent a child together.  She hit the bars, met a bunch of strange guys, had a few miscarriages, it was a very ugly time for her.  On the home front, I just struggled to keep some kind of stability and normality with my own life and for my brothers.

There was one afternoon when I found myself sitting across the table from my mother.  She had sat me down as she had something very important she wanted to discuss.  She looked at me earnestly, reaching over to touch my hand comfortingly, and asked “you’re wanking now, honey, aren’t you ?”

Needless to say, my reaction was shock.  I stared at her agog as she continued, “I want to get my wife pregnant, I need your cum.  All we want is for you to wank into a cup, okay ?”

I shook my head and left the room, beginning my plans for dismantling the family unit and getting my brothers into some kind of safe and stable living arrangement.

I don’t think she approached them with the same request, but I did hear sometime later that she had approached a number of neighbourhood boys, friends of myself and Craig.  Just as disturbingly, later that evening the girlfriend approached me, trying clumsily to get me to drink a bottle of wine with her.  I realised deep in my bones that it was not a safe environment for my brothers, and it was my duty to find a safer and more stable place for them to finish growing up.

There was a lot of violence in this dark period of my life.  My mother exposed us to all manner of thugs and drug addicts, and they weren’t always friendly or well behaved.  Thankfully, through my martial arts I was developing the confidence and discipline to be able to manage these kinds of situations, so I won’t go into any great detail here about the odd assortment of drunken brawls and domestic disputes.  Some were funny (I remember pummelling a strung out club-wielding lesbian with an old-fashioned phone one evening until she and her gang retreated) but most were ugly and demoralising, as all violence ultimately is.  The only incident I will describe at length is when a drug dealer pointed a shotgun at my fifteen-year-old face and threatened to kill me.

-o0o–o0o–o0o-

I was sleeping late one night when there’s a knock at my door (I habitually locked the door in those days, you can understand why).

“Whuzzle huh ?”, I murmured, rising to wakefulness.

“Open up, its Mum, I need your help”

Slipping on a t-shirt, I opened the door to my mother, immediate concern filling me at the expression of open fear on her face.  She had the look of a child who has been caught doing something very wrong by her strict father, and was terrified of a serious beating.

“What’s the problem now ?”, I asked cautiously.

“Come with me, okay ?”, she urged, taking my hand.  “Don’t ask questions.”

She led me out into the city night, her teenage son.  At the time I had no clue what was going on, but now in retrospect I understand that she was visiting a drug dealer to whom she owed money, and requesting more time, intending to use me as a social (and physical) shield in the hopes of obtaining leniency.  I still don’t understand how a parent could do that – the absolute and unconditional love I have for my son has taught me that I’d walk through a pool of vicious crocodiles before risking him pain.  I guess drug addiction over-rides even the maternal instinct.

Anyway, I found myself standing outside a run-down house on a shabby block of land, loud music blaring from inside.  My mother cautiously led me to the front door, and knocked on the loose fly-screen.

Moments later, a burly man in a stained white t-shirt came to the door grunting, “Who the fuck .. oh it’s you.  Where’s my money ??”

He was dishevelled, wild-eyed, aggressive.  They negotiated, or rather squabbled, becoming increasingly vocal.  It became clear to me that she owed him at least $500, and to reach this point of escalation she had probably already done everything she could to mitigate the debt, including (I can only speculate) prostituting herself to this disgusting man.  She spoke to him in hushed pleading tones, begging for more time.  I knew this situation was bad, and would only get worse.

“Mum, I want to go home”, I said softly, interrupting them and grabbing at her arm.

The next thing I knew, there was a flurry of movement and I had a shotgun held right in my face, and my mother was screaming, pleading for mercy, pleading for my life.  With a vicious snarl, the drug-dealer launched his left arm at her, striking her across the face with the back of his hand, sending her to the ground while he was grunting, “you’ll fucking pay, or I’ll do for you, your kid, your whole fucking family, you hear me ?”

It’s difficult to describe the feelings I experienced at that moment.

Time slowed down, for one thing.  Milliseconds stretched out, and there was a sense of .. a kind of gravity, a seriousness – the kind of feeling that you might get if you are getting married, or setting out on a long journey: a sense of importance.  Suddenly the world was more there.  With that, I felt a sorrow, a kind of grief for my mother, and a lament at the ugliness of the world, but above that I felt a clenching overwhelming anger.  I think that was the last violent encounter of my lifetime where anger muddied my judgement – and I hope never to feel that kind of rage again.

Rage is ultimately a cannibalistic and selfish emotion.  These days, I watch the news very closely for criminality where I might have a meaningful chance of intervention – and sometimes I feel echoes of that rage.  For example, if I learn of a crime against a child or someone with a disability, I have to take a moment to calm and centre myself.  I only hope that if I ever face true evil, that I can look it in the eye and feel pity, not rage.  I want to fight monsters, not become one.

Anyway, this ogre of a man was holding a gun at me, and had just backhanded my mother across the face, sending her to the ground.  I didn’t act reflexively, when I retaliated it was a deliberate choice based largely on a simple understanding that life had taught me from relationships so far: once you start running away .. you never stop.

So I moved fast, while he was distracted.  I grabbed the barrel of the gun, and pulled it over my shoulder, past my face, and then reversed it, striking the man hard on his left knee, then again driving the weapon down rapidly into his ample stomach and shoulder-blade as he crumpled to the ground.  Suddenly, miraculously, the gun was out of his hands and in mine and he was on the ground.  Instinctively, I knew I couldn’t leave it like that, so I began to batter him about the face and neck with the butt of the weapon until we had progressed into the hallway of his house and he was lying hunched against the wall, shielding himself with his arms, his face covered with his own blood.

I know you might think that I enjoyed that, but I promise you with absolute clarity that I did not.  It was deeply disgusting to me: but I knew, with total certainty, that if I didn’t beat him badly there would be more trouble.  It was animal kingdom rules and I had to show him that despite my size, I was the stronger and more dangerous predator.  The worst thing was the blood and the fear in his eyes, I will never forget that look.

I glared down at him, a boy holding a gun.  I knew in my heart he expected me to shoot him (and I think my mother thought the same).  With my mothers terrified sobs in the background, I spoke slowly, forcefully, “If you come after us, or even come near my family, you’ll pay with my life”.

Confusing, yes ?

I know, but I was only fifteen years old and not exactly Dirty Harry (you don’t get to practice these moments in advance, I’m afraid).  Clearly I meant “pay with YOUR life”.

To this day, I don’t remember what happened to the shotgun.  I know I was carrying it with me when we hurriedly walked away from the drug-house, but I have no memory of what I did with it.  That neglect still bothers me, tingling me with guilt.  Where did that gun wind up ?  Intrinsically evil, a weapon built purely to kill, did I just dump it somewhere ?  Could it have been found by children ?  Evildoers ?  (I honestly can’t remember, which is strange, because my memory is normally exceptional – with subsequent training I have learned to memorise a document in moments.  There was a police station not far from my house, I can only hope that the weapon somehow wound up there).

In any case, shaken, and weary from dissipating adrenalin, we found ourselves at home.  I comforted my mother as best I could, and that night I put my plan to split the family into action.

-o0o–o0o–o0o-

So, at the age of fifteen, I dismantled the family, and left home.

I had previously conducted a series of phone interviews with my former step-father.  My appraisal was that he was actually getting his life together.  He held an honest job, he seemed to sincerely regret breaking down over my mother leaving him.  My youngest brother was with him every second week already, and it seemed reasonable that he could be a half-decent parent and provide a safe environment – so I rang the following morning and made arrangements for him to take John into his fulltime care.

I arranged for Craig to be ferried off to an Aunt who lived in Tasmania.  A good woman, honest, moderate, kind – she agreed to look after him and care for him, and I felt that would be a positive environment and a good choice.  I negotiated it, and a week later he was on the plane to Hobart, where she lived.

That week, we were constantly concerned about reprisals from the drug dealer.  I remember waking in the middle of the night, coldly alert to the slightest sound.  It was a week of vulnerability and fear.  I don’t think my mother really noticed that I was dismantling the family until it was already done.

Once my brothers were safely away, she launched herself at me in a fury, firing accusations and profanities and blows at me in equal proportion.  I fended her off easily, and calmly said to her “Get your life in order.  I’m leaving now, and I don’t ever want to hear from you again.  You may be able to earn back the others, but I’m done with you.”

I then took my worldly possessions (a backpack, some clothes and $28), and left the house never to return.

My intention was to travel to Sydney on foot.  Yes, I know, it’s crazy – but even then I was the kind of person who is disposed to take on a Quest, and this long walk was the first quest of my young life.  I felt that walking to Sydney would be a good way to see Australia, and when I arrived my grandparents could help me settle in and find a job.

The goodbye to my friend Ben was in a way more difficult than walking away from my mother.  He cried bitter tears, I had to hug him for a long time and explain that I would always be his friend, and that I would definitely see him again.

Tragically, he died in a car accident about five years later.  It still makes me weep to think of his young life crushed so pointlessly.  He fell in with some bad friends, and one night they were drunk and driving recklessly and the car crashed into a telephone pole.  The drivers side crumpled, killing the other kid instantly, but Bennie wasn’t wearing a seatbelt and was thrown through the windscreen to land in front of the car.  That might have been enough to kill him, but the car actually continued it’s momentum, twisting past the pole and starting to spin, landing on him and crushing him.

It is one of the great regrets of my lifetime that I was not true to my promise that we would meet again, and that I failed in my role as his friend, mentor and protector.  He was crucial to forging me into the person I am today, and will always have a place in my heart of hearts as a dear friend and inspiration.

Some days, I still feel that he is with me, and when I do a Good Deed, I can almost feel him smiling.

-o0o–o0o–o0o-

It took me 27 days to walk from Brisbane to Sydney.  I had very little money, and no shelter.  To my great regret and enduring shame, I stole a tarpaulin covering somebody’s car one day after I had spent a long and sleepless night shivering, huddled against a terrible storm.  That trip is an adventure in itself, but for the most part nothing truly defining happened (except for the trip itself, my first official Quest).  I averaged about 30-40 kilometres per day, long fatiguing marches through some of the most beautiful parts of the Australian coastline.

That trip is where my internal barometer tuned in to the weather, and I learned the trick of auto-hypnosis.  After a number of nights suffering through drenching storms, I became attuned to the weather cycle, and that knack has never left me subsequently.  Even today, more than 20 years later, I can wake up in the morning, look at the sky and sniff the air, and be able to tell you if it will rain today.

Additionally, all those long hours of endless trudging down roadsides and along beaches gave me the technique of sending my mind elsewhere – a kind of auto-hypnosis, where my body can be undergoing rigorous torment but my mind can be off drifting in another place, there but separate.  I had partly developed this ability through my martial arts, but perfected it on that long, hard road.  It’s hard to describe unless you also have mastered this meditation technique, but it is very useful.

Anyway, after about a month on the road, I found myself on the doorstep of my grandparents’ house, hoping fervently that they would take me in for a couple of weeks and help me find a job.  I was actually physically wrecked at this stage, covered in road-dust, with blisters the size of golf-balls on my feet.  My grandmother answered the door, hugged me, and took me in and nursed and fed me for a couple of days until I was recovered.  (After the fourth day away, my mother realised that I wasn’t coming back and had made calls to notify relatives, and evidently my grandmother suspected I was en route to her, and was expecting me).

I went job hunting, and the first job I interviewed for I obtained (working as a labourer on a large plant nursery).  I worked there for six months, earning good income for a 15 year old.  It is noteworthy that this is where I discovered my real affinity for plants and animals.  The nursery was basically a big sprawling farm, with rows of greenhouses where different types of plants are propagated and grown.  I had great success working with both plants and animals, I was surprised to discover that I had this gift.

During that time I also searched for a martial arts school (fruitlessly) until I found a newspaper ad for a guy from Brazil who lived two towns over and was teaching Jujitsu.  We lived in a rural area and getting around was a hassle, but I bought a bicycle and for the next two years I cycled the 20k every day to train with this master (who turned out to be a deeply skilled and disciplined jujitsu exponent, when we finished training together years later, he said to me “you are many years younger than me, but you surpass my ability, you should find another teacher with my blessing”.  I still see him every couple of years when I make it to Sydney, but no longer as Master and Student, now just friends & equals).

My grandparents were as isolated and hostile toward one another as ever, but at this stage I was more developed and advanced, so I created a strategy to mediate a peace between them.  When I arrived, they had not spoken in 9 months, due to a conflict over a piece of cheese (yes, apparently my grandmother had purchased the wrong brand).  My arrival on their doorstep did actually trigger a kind of peace between them, bringing them together out of their mutual concern for me, which was a pleasant signature to their final years together.

You see, they welcomed me to stay at their home, and implored me to quit my job and return to school.  They urged me that I was far too clever to work as a labourer and that they would very happily provide me with a place to stay while I resumed study.  (I agreed, but under the proviso that I contribute – after a bit of research I found this wonderful AUSTUDY plan that provided me with income which I was able to pass on to my grandparents).

Those years were filled with firsts.  First kiss, first time driving, first alcohol, a time of innocence and exploration.  At school, I actually achieved a level of popularity – and formed some great relationships.  The school did have a bully, but as soon as he tried to establish the pecking order, I fought him to a surrender, and after that we became mates.

The bubble burst when my grandmother was diagnosed with cancer of the bladder, and began the painful & slow process of dying over the next 18 months.

-o0o–o0o–o0o-

I can’t explain how deeply and completely I loved and pitied this woman, and how important it was to me to make her transition from this world as dignified and loving as possible.  My grandfather stoically refused to visit her in hospital, and everybody else was infrequent at best, so I made it my mission to visit her every day (despite the 2 hour journey each way, on foot, bicycle and train).

As a fighter, I was really starting to mature, and I joined a Wing Chun Kung fu school near the hospital to take up chinese boxing in addition to my jujitsu training regime.  You see, it was as much as an outlet, and to kill time while avoiding peak hour public transport congestion as for acquiring the practical skills.  However, over the next three years I fell in love with the fine-points of the art and became a very proficient kung fu exponent, and won a series of state martial arts competitions against fighters from a diverse range of backgrounds.

One night, I was on my way home from the hospital, when I was confronted by two guys in a back alley in Blacktown, Sydney.  Half-caste indigenous, I think they were street-kids, looking to make a quick buck.  They insisted that I hand over my wallet, or they would stab and kill me.

It all happened very fast, but I’d like to emphasise that rage, fear or panic were not a factor in the encounter.  In fact, it’s noteworthy that although I fought them both, I felt inside a sense of compassion for their situation.  Running was not a viable option, so I attempted to negotiate, suggesting “I don’t want to fight you, but I won’t give you my money.  At best, you stab me and do prison time for assault with a deadly weapon.  At worst, I take the knife off you and give you the beating of a lifetime.  Is this really worth it ?  Is this really what you want from life ?”

But they were forceful and insistent, and one of them brandished the knife quite seriously, threatening to ‘cut my fucking eyes out’.  So in a rapid flurry, I disabled the knife-arm and struck him twice in the face, knocking him to the ground, before turning on the second assailant and locking his knife-arm beneath my own (and I’m afraid I may have dislocated his shoulder, as he screamed and dropped the blade – in my concern and surprise I released him and he scurried away, fleeing and leaving his friend to his fate).

Kneeling, I took both knives and slipped them into my backpack (disposing of them into garbage later), then woke up the first attacker.  He was very bleary and disoriented, and actually thanked me as I helped him to his feet.  I pointed to the end of the alleyway where his friend had fled, and he thanked me again and nodded groggily, limping off in pursuit.

Up until this point, I hadn’t really used my fighting skills in a potentially deadly situation.  It was validation, but I don’t recall ever having any real doubt that I’d be able to fight my way out of a dangerous situation if I needed to.

The thing that disturbed and frustrated me was that I hadn’t been able to talk my way out of the situation.  I obsessed about that for days to follow, reliving the encounter, the ugliness of it, the violence, my inability to find a more constructive outcome.  You see, I took absolutely no pleasure or glory from fighting those kids (I think they were both younger than me), I felt disgust and a kind of helpless sorrow – a general lament that the world was so dark and barren.

-o0o–o0o–o0o-

That night marked the end of whatever innocence I had left.  I saw the world as a tired whore, I saw death, dishonesty and violence around me, and that I was dragged down to that level, making violence a permanent fixture in my own life.

Next Chapter:  Manhood.  My time in the military.  My first love.