Wolves Don’t Lose Sleep Over the Opinion of Sheep

This is the story of a Wolf in Wolves’ Clothing

I can’t explain to you what it’s like being a sheep. I’ve never been one. I’ve only ever been a wolf, a lion or a bear. I don’t ever remember crying at being terrorized in my youth. But I’ve been terrorized many times in my life.

Do boys even consider it being raped when they are sexually molested at age 9 by a 17-year-old girl? I didn’t think it was right, but I had no choice in the matter. I don’t even know if I didn’t think it was right. I didn’t think at all. I just did what I was told. It didn’t feel like it was terror, but I can promise to you that no 17-year-old today would touch any nine-year-old family member of mine and live to savor his or her conquest.

My sister and I were chased by an adult with a knife because he wanted the pocket-change we had from the store transaction we had just finished. We think he was and adult. He could have been an old-looking teenager, but when you are six-years-old, everyone is an adult to you. I was six and my sister was 10, and this asshole couldn’t catch us, so he must have been a junkie creep. We got away because we frantically banged on doors and got the attention of a real adult who rescued us and scared the feen away.

Now, that was being terrorized. But I didn’t cry then and I didn’t cry when again at age six, I was ‘attacked’ by older kids when they leaped from behind the hedges and cracked eggs on top of my head. I only remember just carrying on to finish the task I was sent to do.

It’s so incredible stringing all these memories together because again, I didn’t cry when I was hit by a car. Mom had always told me to look both ways before crossing the street. I looked both ways and then I looked again. Satisfied the coast was clear, I had one mission. To make it to the ice cream truck. Other kids were gathered around it and I loved me some I've cream. The coast was clear and I proceeded to make my way. Such a short distance to travel for such a mighty reward. Just as I made my way to the center of the road, from out a nowhere this freaking idiot, attempting to allude the police, came around the corner, wheels screeching, I think he even lost a hubcap as he rounded the corner. I had nowhere to go.

He nailed me square-on and I finally made it across the rest of the street. I rolled from the yellow center lines all the way to the curb. The curb acted like a bumper and I remember rolling into the curb and then rolling back into the street a little, just between where the asphalt and the white cement met. That was terror. Everyone ran over to me; some thought I was dead. But I didn’t cry though and I believe that’s why I got my ice cream for free that day.

Growing up in Chicago in the 1960s was tough for anyone, but especially for a six-year-old African American child. There wasn’t much to do and I guess that’s why this one gang of kids, who dubbed themselves, “The Bad Boys,” found entertainment in terrorizing younger children. The “gang” was made up of kids between the ages of seven to 17. They wore capes and masks like Robin in the television show Batman. What you didn’t want to ever do was to be caught by them. They had a reputation of being brutal.

But I didn’t cry when the Bad Boys caught me and four of my cousins in the neighborhood phone booth. What would five boys be doing in a phone booth in the first place? Gosh, your guess is as good as mine. But that didn’t matter because we were caught and now, we were being terrorized by the Bad Boys. They surrounded the phone booth and were banging in the glass and yelling at the top of their lungs. We were actually really terrorized and there may have been a tear to stream down my cheek, but I’m certain no one inside the phone booth noticed, because we had to figure out how to escape our situation. Thomas told us, “Listen! We gotta bust outta here. One by one. We gonna push the door open and when we do, you run like hell.” While that made no sense at all, at the time that was the only plan we had and it made sense to us. And it worked.

One by one each of us squeezed out the folding phone booth door while the gang continued to bang. We broke free and ran as fast as our little legs could carry us. When it was all said and done, I guess they just wanted to terrorize us. Clearly, they could have caught and captured us upon exiting the phone booth. But that day, I was terrorized, but I didn’t cry. Not really.

Another time when I didn’t cry and I wasn’t terrorized, but I was traumatized, was when I was in the back seat of my dad’s car. We had just gone to Burger King and he bought for me the almighty Whopper! For a kid, the Whopper was so freaking huge, I couldn’t even fit both my hands around it. Man, I was going to enjoy that bad boy!

Back then, they didn’t wrap the burger the way they do today. Today, they envelop the sandwich in its wrapper. Back then, they just put the darn thing in the paper and folder it over the sandwich a couple of times. As we drove down the road and as I prepared to take my first bite, my dad slammed on the brakes, jolting the car to a violent stop and my sandwich up against the back of his seat and all over the floor of the car. I was heartbroken because I knew there wouldn’t be a replacement sandwich. Yeah, it’s funny today as I sit here and type this, but OMG, I think I might have cried that day.

There are so many more stories that illustrate how I became the person I was back then and who identified with being a wolf in wolf’s clothing. As I grew older, I truly was what people refer to as a wolf. I wasn’t shy. I took what I wanted and I didn’t care about feelings. But as I ponder the past, there is a reason I became who I did, just as there is a reason I am who I am today.

For everyone reading, accept who you are. You didn’t become the person you are by chance. The circumstances of your life, your childhood and the years as you aged had a particular role in your growth and development. You can’t change your experiences. Grow from them. Accept who you are and if you need to change, you now have the knowledge to adapt. Happy living.

About the author

Julius Evans has a Master of Arts degree in National Security and Strategic Studies from the U.S. Naval War College, Newport, RI; a Master of Arts degree in Strategic Communication and Leadership from Seton Hall University, South Orange, NJ; a Bachelor of Science degree in Mass Communication and Journalism from City University, Bellevue, WA and an Associate of Arts degree in Liberal Studies from Central Texas College, Killeen, Texas.

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