August 1954: We came out of the various eighth grade classrooms and schools to the two high schools in Smith County, Tennessee. There was a smaller high school at Gordonsville, but those from north of the Cumberland River were destined to attend Smith County High School at the top of College Hill in Carthage, Tennessee.
All the small schools, Forks of the River, Defeated Creek, Kempville, Union Heights, Pleasant Shade and others along with the local churches were the entities that defined local communities. They had their differences in one particular way. Some were predominately Methodist, Baptist, Church of Christ folks, and a few were Holy Rollers, but they stayed “attached” to one another by way of the local school. The teachers were intimately familiar with every family having taught more than one member in more than one year of school. But life at Smith County High School was a whole different story.
First there was the Belt Line! We had heard of the right of passage known as the dreaded Belt Line: The Big BL! On the second day of ‘books’ all the “Green Freshmen” were expected to “man-up” and run the Big BL! It was an unceremonial event where the sophomores, junior and senior boys rounded up all the male freshmen they could find to “run the line.” Not to run the line was touted to be “less than expected:” or chicken shit! (Sorry for the momentary dip in decorum, but chicken-shit was a common phrase in those days. The term has been reduced to ‘chicken’ since then.)
At first recess on that hot August morning, the stalwart frosh assembled at the south door of the main hall. There we encountered about 200 feet of male upperclassmen arraigned in two rows descending the hill toward the elementary school. There were probably thirty or forty boys armed with their favorite belts ready for the coming melee. It was a fearsome event for the green frosh who were enduring taunting and jeering delivered at maximum decibel. We knew that if we “chickened out” our lives were going to be hell-on-earth thereafter.
So we stalwart freshmen sucked it up, and strode to the head of the line. I began to notice that not all of my eighth grade classmates were present for the Big BL! Where were they? ‘Could it be that only the stupid opted to participate.’ I was number three in line.
There were guys I had never known before ready to do me bodily harm.
The most feared weapon was the 4-H Club belt buckle. It was a solid brass buckle about three inches long and about an inch and a half wide. It was the favorite along the Big BL! I saw that “Slop Bucket Turner” and “Dooty Ballinger” wielding 4_H buckles near the front of the line.
I determined that the best strategy was to closely follow the boy in front of me so that a fresh wind-up was less likely. So without any fanfare or speech about “never before have I done a better thing” the first kid in line sallied forth. He was whopped from the front and the rear, and he emerged at the point of tears. I was determined that I would not chicken out or cry: both of which were ‘fates worse than death’ for a fourteen year old.
The boy in front of me surprised me with his speed and agility! I followed close behind but not fast enough to avoid all the swinging belts. I was smitten with the infamous 4-H buckle and the other end of several others.
At the very bottom of the gauntlet stood the fearsome Bobby Hewitt! Bobby was a big, red headed bully who could have intimidated Adolf Hitler! He flashed an evil grin when he saw the fright in my face. He was swinging his belt and making a sound that combined a laugh and growl!
I made a feint to the left but went right, and Bobby Hewitt didn’t touch me! Even after twenty strikes I had eluded the worst of the worst! I was hurting and on the verge of loosing-it, but I sucked it up and didn’t cry or show my pain, mostly.
I made a vow not to participate in the Big BL the next year, and I didn’t have to. Our principal Mr. Smith stopped the “rite of passage” and made the protagonists whip each other instead of the new Green Freshmen. And that was the end of the Belt Line for the next several years. I have recently heard that the old ceremony has been reinstated!
Never under estimate the power of peer pressure. The adolescent male mind must be attracted to more creative ventures to avoid the distractions of peril and risk.
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