Originally Cont’d from Name-calling can get you kicked in the end 1-28-10

     Calling a kid names could cause a lasting scar one may have to deal with later in life. It’s either that, or you learn to “toughen up” as I did, and let the wise-cracks, the slurs, the hate-filled and ignorant remarks simply glide over you.

     I remember my teenage years, and names aimed at me by people I didn’t know or hardly knew. On occasion, I’d hear somebody call me “queer.” I’m not homosexual, not that there’s anything wrong with it, to quote the old Seinfeld routine. But I never shied away from such “feminine” activities as dancing and singing, getting “dressed up,” for a party,  and “speaking in complete sentences” and not the monosyllables used by a lot of so-called “tough” guys on the block of North Philadelphia where I grew up.

Name-Calling Continues All Through Life

     Later still, I got hit with such labels as “racist,” and then “sexist.” Neither fit, but I never stayed around those persons long enough to prove them wrong. They did not know me, and I was maturing enough to know my bending over backwards to show them the opposite would be a waste of time. Their’s and mine.

     When it comes to name-calling, I’m not talking ancient history here.  I remember returning from a trip to Greece in late 2008 and hearing a comment from a fellow Vietnam veteran twice my size about my fellow countrymen. We were riding in an elevator full of veterans and this Patty DeMarco-type  — a bully — asked me if I enjoyed myself with all the “Greek men” in Athens.

     “Yeah,” I said. “Including your mama.”

     Got a big laugh all around. Except for the homophobic name-caller, who turned red in his White face. He was the same one who said his parish priest had to “clean out” the church recreational hall when a group of Muslims were permitted to hold a meeting there. The guy’s old. Age-wise as well as culturally. He’s got white hair and lives alone with his PTSD (post traumatic stress disorder). Few have any thing  to do with him. Including his family. When will he ever learn that you just can’t  elevate your self, you can’t improve your lot by trying to tear down another because of their religion, their politics, their way of life?

Getting Even with My First Name-Caller

     I kicked Patty DeMarco’s ass the next time he called me a name while growing up in Brewerytown. (See Name-calling can get you kicked in the end .) Hit him as hard as I could, shouting “get up, ‘shrimpboats,'” as he fell to the street, cowering next to marble steps leading to one of the row homes on our block. He held both arms over his face, as snot poured out and onto his clothes. Now it was his turn to bawl. The only name he called then, was for his “mama.” It felt good, but I would not recommend it for an adult who picked up PTSD during his or her lifetime. Could end up in jail and the name-caller in the morgue.

     Sticks and stones may break your bones, but names will never hurt you, is how the saying goes. They may not hurt, but I don’t think you ever forget them, either.  If you’re lucky, you use them to either build character or learn how to forgive from a long distance for harms done you a long time ago.

For more on “name-calling,” see

‘Les We Forget names called our soldiers