The Ballad of Sordon Gpurgeon (part 1 of 4)

A long time ago, back when I cried every time someone shattered a beer bottle on my bottom lip, some angry white people came to my house. It was an old redneck and some blond, white kids that were about my age. My brother and I were in the kitchen, twiddling our thumbs like good little boys when we heard them knock on our back door and start yelling. The old man seemed to believe that we had shot at their house with a BB gun. He had proof, too. His son and his nephew both had small, pebble-like red bruises on their cheek and neck respectively. He yelled at us for a few minutes before my brother told me to go fetch my mother.

“Mommy!” I ran to her room, crying. “There’s some men at the door that are yelling!”

My mother got up, her face indiscernible. She went to the back door where my brother looked uncomfortable and worried, as if looking for reinforcements.

“Your sons shot at my house with a BB gun! They hit my kids!”

My mom calmly replied that it was impossible. We didn’t own a BB gun and we had all been in the house all day. If we had shot off anything, she would have known. The white, blonde kids were ashen-faced, but the old man didn’t seem to like that response. He yelled at her, called her a liar, and demanded an apology or he would call the cops. He said the last line with a sneer.

My mom refused. She calmly informed him that he was trespassing on her property and that she would be more than willing to call the cops if he did not. He turned around and left in a huff. My mom, true to her word, called the police.

“He comes to my house, yells at my kids, calls us all liars, then threatens to call the cops on us?” She hung up the phone, indignant. “As if that were somehow something to be afraid of! How dare he assume we were illegal!” ((Immigrants.))

Soon, the police came and took a statement. They went over to his house and did the same.Then, an hour later, the old man and the kids came back. This time they were far more morose.

“I want to apologize for coming here in a huff. My kids were actually the ones that shot the BB guns, they just blamed it on you so as to not get in trouble.” He said in all civility. Then he made his kids apologize one by one.

When they left, I had a newfound admiration for my mother. My mother is short, Hispanic, and generally meek. The old man had been tall, white, and angry, but my mom had held her own against him.

As chance would have it, many years later I became friends with one of those kids. His name was Sordon Gpurgeon ((I should come up with a pseudonym before I make this the first hit on Google again. Any ideas?)) and he constantly reminded me of that story and apologized profusely for the event. He seemed genuinely ashamed of his, his cousin’s, and his uncle’s actions.

A long time ago, back when I cried every time someone shattered a beer bottle on my bottom lip, some angry white people came to my house. It was an old redneck and some blond, white kids that were about my age. My brother and I were in the kitchen, twiddling our thumbs like good…