When I was in high school, there was a family a couple of towns over whose kids went to the same high school I did. There were three girls, (I think, it’s been a few years) and one boy. The boy, we shall call Frankie because that was his name, you would have expected to be pampered and spoiled.

That was not the case. For some reason known only to him, the father used the boy as the punching bag for all his frustrations – and there were many. He was good, as so many abusers are, at putting the marks and bruises where no one noticed. Frank was good at hiding the pain, and keeping the secret – as were the sisters. Telling, back then, would have most likely left him alone with an abuser who was even angrier. Kids don’t tell – and most people don’t notice.

Frank was a character – always skiring on the edge of getting into trouble in school and always making everyone laugh. He was the kind of kid my mom would have scolded, but protected like a momma bear. If only she had known.

During our Sophomore year, we held something that would send the blue hairs into spasms today – a “slave auction.” Students volunteered to be auctioned off to other students and to be the slave of the winner for a day. (there were rules as to what you cold be made to do, we weren’t total heathens!) It was actually rather fun, especially when a popular girl would be auctioned and all the guys would fight to win her for the day. We made a TON of money – partly because Frankie and his sisters worked it so they won most of the slaves, and then resold them. Looking back, it’s not only hilarious (and if this gets your panties into a bunch, why are you here?) it was pretty ingenious. It was also the last year the auction was allowed. Thanks, Frankie. 🙂

After graduation, Frankie joined the Army and was sent to Viet Nam. Mind you, he didn’t have to go, being the only son would have exempted him. He chose to go. He died there, and he died a hero. He saved several members of his company by his actions.

I was in college. I think it was Sophomore year, my mom called and told me he had died. We were friends, nothing more, he always made me smile and in high school, that meant a lot. So I mourned the passing of a friend and went on with my life.

Years later, I worked in a sewing mill. The girl who sat beside me often spoke of the gentleman she shared coffee with at the local diner each day before work. She spoke very highly of him, thought a lot of him. One day she mentioned that she was engaged and sort of hesitantly said that the guy was Vietnamese, This was bit radical back then, not many “mixed” marriages happened in that area. I didn’t care, as long as she was happy. She said she had hesitated to tell her friend Joe, the guy from the diner, but when she did, he said, “My son died for them, I have no problem with you marrying a Vietnamese man.”

I remember sort of spinning in my chair and choking out, “what’s Joe’s last name?” She told me. I started to cry. Well, Imagine that poor girl! When I stopped crying and could put two words together, I called dear Joe every name I could think of, and told her finally exactly why I felt as I did. Yes, he was Frank’s father. The father that Frank joined the army to escape. The father who should grieve every day for sending his son to a war he didn’t have to fight, to die for people who finally cared about him like his own parent did not.

A few years ago, a beloved (by some) music teacher passed away. He was in his 90’s and practically attained sainthood, by the comments from former students. I bit my tongue. There was a day, in music class, when Frankie was acting up. I don’t remember what he was doing, but he had us all laughing and was being disruptive – as was normal for him. At one point, this teacher, after telling him to stop a few times – threatened to call his father. Frank, a teenage boy, with an image to uphold – he was a bit of a tough guy, after all – begged the teacher not to call. Again, the teacher threatened – in front of the entire class. I will never forget watching that boy, practically sobbing, begging that man to not call his father.

And the teacher called.

So when that man died, I had a hard time equating the bastard who could reduce a boy to tears, without asking why he was so terrified, and smile while he did it, to the saint he was portrayed to be.

But I bit my tongue. Why ruin the reputation of a dead old man? I’m sure God took care of that bit of business, not in my hands

And yesterday, someone posted a tribute to Frankie because it’s been 50 years since he died. That’s insane. It can’t be that long ago, but here we are. I commented that he had a rough life and it was still sad. Someone else commented that he knew Frank’s dad. Yup, he went on, and on, and on, about how badly Joe grieved the loss of his only son and how he honored him after his death.

And once again I bit my tongue.

But I’m thinking about Frankie today. And what a funny, nice, tough guy he was – and how good he was at hiding the bruises and scars, and how I wish he could have lived longer, to maybe have his own kids and treat them the way kids should be treated – with love, and not with fists.