I moved to the center of the room and assumed the position. I stared straight ahead. I tried to brace myself for the blow, but nothing could have prepared me. Swat! The force of the impact nearly knocked me over. I rose on my toes to keep from falling forward. The pain of it crackled through my thin body. My vision blurred. The sound in the room grew muted as if I was listening from underwater. My temples throbbed. My nostrils flared. My nose ran and my eyes watered despite my best efforts to prevent it. Beads of sweat formed on my forehead. I was on fire. My body demanded that I scream, run, cry, do something. But I knew that I could do nothing. I stood firm. “Thanks — may I have another?” That is the way it is often portrayed in movies and literature. Orderly. But that was only an introduction, a test. The hazing sessions quickly accelerated to dangerous affairs beyond imagination or comprehension.
Charles Blow, keeping it way real.
