“My Name is Inigo Montoya. You killed my father. Prepare to die!” from Princess Bride

I have been compared to the Ferdinand the bull who prefers to sit in the meadow sniffing flowers, but will charge at a red flag. Mr. Husband refers to me as “his little terrorist.”  Before we go one step further, this does not mean that I bomb buildings, or threaten people. Ok, I swatted my dog with a newspaper after she crapped on the Persian rug for the 87th time because she refused to go out in the rain, but that doesn’t count.

The nickname comes from when we play computer games together and I forget that his character is the “tank” and I’m the artful dodger and barge ahead of him into the 7th level of gaming hell, guns a blazin’. But it’s a game Mkay?

Maybe it’s because I’m the oldest of 6 siblings in a 1 parent household and fell into the role of the family protector. Who knows? When I was 13 years old I looked out the front window and saw the neighborhood bully beating up my little brother. I charged out the door in a rage and slapped him opened handed across the back so hard that he went flying into a somersault. It didn’t occur to me at the time that he was almost twice my size. It was momma bear coming out. I saw that kid a week later and he still had a red hand print on his back.

I also have a big mouth, figuratively speaking. I tend to blurt the obvious when I should remain silent.  I vehemently object to the intolerable. I get up when I should stay down, even when bullets are flying. I know this because at 18 years old I witnessed my boyfriend gunned down and killed on the streets of New Orleans and ran towards him in the hail of bullets. Not so smart, but what was on my mind was to pull him down between 2 cars or stairwell for shelter. It’s a miracle I’m still alive and have all of my permanent teeth.

It’s surreal to see someone shot. Soldiers and gangsters know it. But the average American suburbanite usually never sees such a thing. It’s not at all like it is in the movies. People don’t go flying 15 backwards and slam against a wall. It happened at night, and to me it looked like a firecracker exploded out of his back. He went to his knees and then fell over sideways.  He said 2 words, “I’m hit.” Those were his last words.

Why do I dredge up these memories? I think it’s because I try to understand why people do the unthinkable. What is their motive? Sure some people are just stone cold killers for no good reason. I hope and pray that those are the minority. Perhaps it’s more of a morbid curiosity inspired by my need to write about everything that was ever thought, said or done.