How I overcame fears of public humiliation during my middle school "daze"

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Back in seventh grade at FAMU High School I, like most Black boys, was heavily involved in playing “the dozens,” a nickname for the crass practice of telling jokes about another classmate's mother.  During this stage in our maturation, one of the common retorts between us would be to simply blurt out “yo' momma” to express dissatisfaction on any number of topics—or to clapback at some slight or wisecrack directed one's way.

For those unaware, there was nothing personal in "yo' momma" mind you, as many of our parents had grown up knowing each other (or were well acquainted through school activities or church, fraternal, and sorority affiliations). Nope, we were just a bunch of hard-headed kids having a little bit of fun—albeit at times crass—to pass our middle school days right on by.

Nevertheless, our teachers hated this habit; on more than one occasion, our class had been warned by our adult mentors to cease and desist! In fact, our band teacher George Gibson, a personal friend of both of my parents, had been warning us all year to “stop with all the damn momma jokes.”  

Well, one afternoon during concert band practice, my hard-headed self was having a round of the dozens towards the back of the practice auditorium with Fred Higgs, a fellow jokester who would grow up to become an award-winning engineering professor and vice-provost at prestigious Rice Unviersity in Texas.   

Now the percussion section, of which I was a member, was often disbursed around the room during concert band season, but we were rarely allowed to play during full ensemble practice because we would have drowned out all of the melodic instruments. 

Photo of our concert band from 7th grade; a small portion of my head is visible in the center-left of the third row (behind Darci Washington's afro)…

So on this particular day young Higgs, a trombone player seated only a few feet from where I stood with my snare drum, proceeded to go back and forth with me as we jokingly said “yo' momma!” at every possible interval. The funny part is that my mom and Mrs. Higgs had grown up only a year apart at FAMU High back in the day, attended FAMU at the same time, and eventually pledged the same Sorority—Delta Sigma Theta. So trust, there was nothing personal in our joking at all!

But on this day, “yo' momma” would permanently stop—well, for me at least, as during the middle of one selection, just as Mr. Gibson cut the band off, the entire room could hear my booming young voice shout “yo' momma!”   

Mr. Gibson was LIVID! 😠

After he yelled “Chuckie, get down here,” I slowly removed my drum to walk to his office, where he was wildly tearing through his file cabinet looking for something...anything...to hit me. Within seconds, he snatched me by my favorite blue wind breaker and slung me across his desk before hitting me at least twelve to fifteen times (I lost count) with a yardstick.

While the beating itself did not particularly hurt, what I remember wondering was when—or if—he would stop swinging? Well, he did stop, and what did hurt was the reaction of my fellow band-mates; as I emerged from the office, the silence was so deafening that you could have heard one of those ancient mice "pissin' on cotton," like my country elders used to say.

If these walls could talk: While unused since the new FAMU High was built 15 years ago, the old FAMU High bandroom (above) still stands “on the highest of seven hills” in Tallahassee, Florida…

To be clear, most of my schoolmates thought that my beating was funny, but no one dared laughed out loud for fear of suffering the same fate! In fact, one senior band member, currently a U.S. Marshal that I chat with every time I see him at the Federal Courthouse in Tallahassee, fought so hard to hold back his laughter that he was literally tearing up.  

A few minutes later, as I emerged from Mr. Gibson's office with my butt, back, and hands burning, the silence was broken when a visibly distraught Lyn Barnes, a clarinet player three years my senior, screamed at him "you didn't have no right to hit that boy like that!" Now Lynn and I were more than just schoolmates because at that time, she was dating my maternal cousin, V. Eric Williams, a sophomore football player at our Southside rival, Rickards High School. Gibson, spiraling even more out of control, yelled at Lyn, "do you want some of this, too," to which Lyn replied, "hit me and my daddy will come out to this school."

Stymied, Gibson nervously grabbed a cigarette out of his case, slammed the front door open, and walked outside to smoke as some band members whispered, others laughed, and Lyn rubbed my shoulders as I sat holding back tears in the woodwind section until practice ended.

When I have told this story through the years, some of my contemporaries are surprised that I didn’t call my dad, the “Colonel,” as he was known across FAMU's campus. Well, my old man was from the “old school,” meaning, he tended to believe the teacher if they said that I was acting out or talking too much in class—because I often did act out or talk too much in class! So the real concern in my 12-year-old mind that afternoon was my hopes that Gibson didn't call my dad, a move that may have led to a second whoopin' at home.

From left: Bill Pittman, Terry Calloway, Fred Higgs, Hobbs, and Ken Riley two years later in 9th grade at the May Day festival…

Again, while Mr. Gibson's whoopin' didn't really hurt my hind parts (although I did have some slight nerve damage to my left pinky that was hit when I was trying to block the blows), it certainly achieved several objectives. For one, I stopped saying "yo' momma" because I realized in real time that I was the only one out of my group of friends who physically paid the price for something that we ALL had been doing ALL year.

Second, what Mr. Gibson unwittingly accomplished by choosing violence was to forever shatter within me any tendency to become overly embarrassed by my mistakes in public. 

Mr. Gibson and me circa 2017 at the FAMU Football kickoff luncheon…

Simply stated, if I could endure a prolonged whoopin' in front of my middle school peers—and live to tell about it—certainly I could march in the Mardi Gras in New Orleans, play football and baseball before hundreds, play quiz bowl before national audiences on BET, deliver closing arguments on CourtTV, express my deepest thoughts in the mainstream media—or endure public ridicule for my mistakes—with ZERO apprehensions or fears…