The Fighting Swamp

A few summers ago, I visited the fighting swamp. When I closed my eyes, I could feel, once again, the charge in the air just before a fight. I could hear it: fists thudding, fighters grunting, and bystanders cheering.

“We’ll take this to the swamp,” Frank would say to Jerry after sharp words at school.

And Jerry had to show up. Otherwise, kids would call him a chicken all week.

The fighting swamp was five blocks from school, on the corner of Webber and Columbine—far enough to keep the teachers away, even though the muck and snakes and poison sumac should have been enough. Word of the fight always spread, and dozens of kids would ring the swamp, waiting for the fight.

Just before the first punch, the fighters would circle each other, fists bunched, jaws clenched, chins up.

“Come on. Give me a punch. Throw me one!” they’d taunt each other.

And finally someone would. It was during this circling phase that I once stepped into the middle. And it’s because Frank was taunting Tommy.

Tommy was my friend. He carried my books, and wrote nice notes, and back in third grade, offered me a plastic ring he won from a toy slot machine. I didn’t take it. Not because I didn’t like Tommy. I just wasn’t ready to get serious in third grade.

Fighting Frank in the swamp was the last thing Tommy wanted to do. And just as Frank bunched up his fists, something came over me. I stepped in between Frank and Tommy.

“This is stupid,” I said to Frank. “You only fight if you aren’t brave enough or smart enough to settle it some other way.”

There I stood. I was a little Mennonite girl with long braids, a modest skirt, thick dark glasses, and associated with God. I was quite certain I wouldn’t get hit.

The swamp grew silent. Tommy’s fists went down. So did Frank’s. Nobody, including me, knew quite what to do next. So we all went home.

In the sixty years since that day in the swamp, many of my peacemaking efforts have failed.

But that day, my friend Tommy didn’t get punched.