Little Matt needs to fly

This is one of the most exciting posts I have to write. Matt just found out that he got accepted to occupational therapy school! In Omaha, Nebraska. That's means in the coming year some time, Matt's going to be flying the coup and heading out to Nebraska. Although Provo will greatly lament his parting, we're really proud of him to be moving on.

Speaking of pride in one's family, I've been thinking of a story that gives me goose bumps of pride every time I think of it, and I'd like to get it onto the blog. As you could probably guess, after having read enough stories of mine on the blog, it has something to do with bodily fluids leaving ones body and landing on some else's. It has to do with unnecessary violence. It has to do with 13 year old girls high kicking 8th graders in the chest. It has to do with all of these things. More specifically, it has to do with the time that my little sister beat up "Fubu" the only white gangster of Dixie Middle School accepted by the Hispanic gangsters as a legitimate gang-banger. Nobody knew his real name. I don't think he had a real name. He was Fubu to us because he came to school every day decked out in several different layers of fubu clothing, starting with the tight wife-beater on bottom and working its way out to the loose flowing fubu outer jersey with a couple tighter jerseys on underneath. No joke, at least 3 layers of jerseys on this kid. In St. George. In 100 degree weather. He was the real thing. I guess wearing all these clothes and surviving multiple heat strokes was what got him acceptance by the Mexican gang-bangers.

So I had the wonderful opportunity of sharing the same bus route with Fubu on the way home, which meant I was usually graced by his freestyle rapping and rants about oppression and police brutality. I didn't care, I just pretended to skate with my fingers on the edge of the bus seat, seeing what new tricks I could learn. I guess not much has changed in 12 years. Anyway, nobody really liked Fubu because he was always threatening to knock you out or shank you without any provocation on your part. He was just that way. Really raw like that. You get what I'm saying. You know the kid I'm talking about. You had the same one in your elementary school. You were happy to see these kids because you know that prison life had a future. Without them, our prisons would be an empty, lonely place in a generation or two. What would be America without some good old fashioned prison life? Anyway, this was Fubu. So I never had anything wrong with him. I don't think I had ever even talked to him, and he hadn't said anything to me. So one day I got on the bus, and as I got on, the first face I saw was Fubu's, staring right at me with this awkward grin on his face and holding perfectly still. Then I saw my 13 year old sister (I was 15) standing a couple feet behind him on the bus pointing at me, crying, and saying, "Him! That's my brother, and he's going to beat you up!" Everyone else on the bus was waiting for what they hoped would be a real fight. They looked pretty excited. I was confused as to why Gin wanted me to beat up Fubu, so I asked what was going on. Gin told me through her tears that Fubu was calling her mean names and making fun of her. If there's one thing you should know about the Hart family, it's that you don't mess with the Hart family unless you're ready to mess with the Hart family, meaning that if you pick on one, you get the whole thing. I've been court ordered by my older brothers to beat up people that were kind of my friends just to preserve the family honor. I've been in fights where both of my brothers jumped in and beat up the person for me. And now that I think of it, this story is the story of Ginger fighting a fight for me. Her own fight.

So Gin told me that the kid was swearing at her and picking on her which filled my body with an urge to use a Van Dam maneuver from "Blood Sport" that I had been practicing, but I felt that ripping a person's tongue out what a rather harsh punishment for swearing. I instead looked at Fubu, asked him if he said anything to my sister to which he hesitantly replied, "Yeah... .... What are you going to do?" As the universe had previously foreseen this event, it had strategically placed a handful of Cheetos in my mouth about 2 minutes earlier that I had not yet swallowed, creating a creamy orange paste ball that was prime for spewing. I spit this huge wad of chewed up Cheetos into his face and sat down without saying anything. Everyone laughed as they wanted to see Fubu suffer just as much as I do at that point, and Fubu sat down in shock that a white boy would dare mess with a Dixie Middle School certified gangster. He cleaned off his face as best as he could, but he had this chunk of cheeto on his eyebrow that he never got. It served as a scarlet letter for those who dare adulterate or profane the Hart code. Realizing that he would lose all street cred if he didn't act quick, he just started shaking his head and repeating over and over, "you shouldn't have done that... you shouldn't don that... man, you gonna pay, you shouldn't have done that..." I kept a close eye on him the entire ride to my bus stop in case he tried to sneak attack me from the side or something. We rode the 10 minutes or so to our stop, then me and Gin got up to get off the bus. Then Fubu decided to join us in getting off the bus as well. This is the moment where your heart rate picks up, your adrenalin kicks in, and you ask yourself if it was worth spitting in his face. Maybe you should have just talked to him. Nevermind that foolishness, this is Middle School. Jungle rules apply here, not civility. There's no reasoning with a seasoned middle school gangster anyhow.

Fubu followed us off the bus and walked about 10 feet behind us as we walked home. I was waiting for him to say or do something to me, but he just kept the same pace as us and kept repeating to himself in a kind of whisper, "you shouldn't have done that..." As he walked behind us, he started stripping off layers of Fubu jerseys, leaving a trail of bread crumbs as it were on the sidewalk behind us. The trail of tears. Jersey tears. The trail of Fubu jersey tears. I'm off topic... He stripped down until he had on just his wife beater and loose fubu shirt, apparently the preferred fighting wardrobe of street warriors. After following us for a block or so, I had enough of listening to him breath out threats against us to himself, so I finally just turned around and told him that if he wanted to fight me, then fight me. If not, quit walking behind me. This was the first time that anyone had every stood their ground against him which threw him off his normal routine. He didn't have anything good to say back, and I don't think he had any real intention of fighting anyone that remotely fought back. So he repeated himself but in a louder, more serious tone this time, "Man... You shouldn't have done that. Now you gonna pay..." It was right then, right at that moment where you decide if negotiations have been futile and hard, raw power is going to be necessary, when all reason has fled the scene and you are left with nothing more than your evolution-given instinct of rock and club, when you debase yourself to the lowly status of super-human ninja fighter defender of good and virtue, when you know that it has come to blows and you might as well get yours in first... yes it was at this very moment when I was just about to charge the kid and start throwing punches, I heard this gut-wrenching battle cry coming from behind me and growing louder very fastly, "DIE!!!!!!" A mass of fury like I've never seen before raced past me in the form of my 13 year old sister, Ginger, whom I had never seen even attempt to inflict physical harm on any living creature. She charged at Fubu full speed and delivered a rib-crushing high kick straight to Fubu's gut. It was an awkward enough kick that I could tell she had not been practicing in the yard like me and my brothers had (you know, ninja training in the yard, jumping over swinging legs, dumping your head in buckets, that kind of stuff), but it was powerful and direct enough that I knew there was nothing but pure, unadulterated rage coming from that kick.

To say the least, the kick surprised, knocked the wind out of, and temporarily rendered our friend Fubu useless. He fell forward when Gin landed her one and only death kick to the stomach, and he gasped for air. Without skipping a beat, as Fubu leaned forward, Gin lay hold upon his loose Fubu shirt, pulled it over his head hockey style, and with her other hand started hitting him on the top of the head. I can tell you that I've never seen such a naturally executed hockey death blow as what Gin pulled off that day. After a couple solid lands to the head, Fubu pulled his way out of Gin's hockey grip and ran back. All he could say was, "Get her off me!!" At this time, seeing that he could have tried to retaliate and hit Gin, I ran between them and told Fubu to go home. Teary-eyed, red faced, and obviously humiliated, Fubu had no other option but to turn around and pack up his gear that he had left strewn on the sidewalk. We started walking away, then Fubu started calling me a wuss for having my sister fight for me. Then Gin reminded him that he was a bigger wuss for getting beat up by a girl, to which he had no clever rebutle. The next day, he had one of his friends ride the bus with him in case me or my sister tried beating him up again, I guess. That's what he gets for starting this whole thing in the first place. Where was I going with this story?... Family pride. Yes, family pride. In the same way I was proud of Gin for defending herself and beating up Fubu, I am proud of Matt for getting into grad school!