What a man looks like

On a hot Indian summer afternoon a short, stocky white man wandered into town wearing his Army Dress Greens his name was Specialist Thomas Benjamin King of Kalamazoo, Michigan.  He headed straight toward the music he heard, he had recognized it as a type of music his buddy PFC Junior Smith played when their brothers were killed in Afghanistan.  When he arrived where the music was playing he was met with a very hostile response.

“You don’t belong here white boy, move on.” The largest black man in a group of five hollered at him as he moved forward toward Thomas.  Who didn’t back down but stood his ground with his eyes looking toward the ground without taking them off of his hostile force approaching.

“I am here to pay my respects to my brother and then I will go.” He replied in a rather tentative tone.  He wasn’t trying to start a fight but he wanted to pay his respects.  The one man noticed his medals and said something to the others Thomas couldn’t hear but they all laughed.

“What they do white boy give you Junior’s medal?  Is that what they did over there?”  He moved toward Thomas and tore the medal off his chest.  “Ain’t nobody want your sorry ass here white boy so why don’t you go back to wherever it was you f*&^ing came from before we take to kicking your ass.”

Thomas’s jaw clenched and his fists followed preparing to defend himself at all costs, he could care less about the medal but he wanted to pay his respects to his fallen brother before he left.  Before he moved three steps around they had knocked him down and were kicking and hitting him screaming at him, “Fight back white boy, fight back!”  Thomas never did anything besides cover up and wait for them to kill him.

“Get off that white boy right now, Clent, you hear me boy.”  An elderly old woman was standing there holding her worn out cane with a medal on her collar Thomas recognized, it was a purple heart.  “Mr. King please accept my dearest apologies for the boys they took their cousin’s death pretty badly and are used to inflicting payback for a death.”  Thomas stood up with the help of two of the younger boys who suddenly looked ashamed by their actions.  The one who ripped the medal off handed it back to him without looking him in the eye.  “No hard feelings it’s not like it’s my first ass whooping.”

“You’re the one aren’t you?”  She asked.

“I have no idea what you are talking about Ma’am.” He replied stuffing the medal in his pocket.

“Don’t lie to a nurse young man, I have seen what happens in combat firsthand and I will be treated with respect at my home, do you understand me?”

“Yes Ma’am, I am the one.”

She turned to the boys and began scolding them as Thomas walked to the side of the house where the grave was placed under a weeping willow tree Junior always talked about.  “That boy took a beating for your cousin in Afghanistan when they were captured by the enemy.  Two months before your cousin pushed him out of the line of fire when he spotted a sniper, you will not touch him again, do you hear me boy?”

“That’s the one Junior wrote about?  He’s so short and don’t look like much didn’t even fight back when he struck him.”  The biggest boy asked staring at Thomas.

“Yes he is and your cousin thought of him as a brother before and after that day.  That young man took a daily beating in his place because he didn’t want them to punish Junior for being black and not Muslim.  I heard from a friend at the German Hospital where he was treated before shipping stateside he had whip marks all over his back.  That is what a man looks like and you should remember what it looks like the next time you shoot at someone in your gangland crap, do you hear me?”

Thomas reached into his pocket and pulled out a medal box, sat it on top of Junior’s gravestone marker, turned and left.  When she went to the grave marker and opened the box it held a Bronze Star that was awarded to Specialist Thomas Benjamin King for conduct while in captivity as described by PFC Junior Smith.