Stephen Kearney – Standing up

Stephen Kearney grew up knowing that he was weak; not a physical weakling as such, just weaker that than all the other boys.  But he hid it well and long until he was outed at the age of 33……………..

At what stage do we develop self-perception?   When do we learn to see ourselves in relation to others?  Was I an early starter?  By the age of six I knew I was weak.  I was weak as in physically lacking strength but I was not a particular weakling. I was certainly able to function normally, but I knew I was simply not as strong as other boys.   And of course, even then, I knew you didn’t advertise the fact.  Boys were meant to be strong!

I lived in perpetual dread of being found out.  However, I managed to escape detection even after a few years in a boys’ primary school, despite once letting one boy from a class below me throw me to the ground several times, knowing it was better not to contest him.   At the age of nine I was invited to a classmate’s birthday party shared with his sisters so there were a lot of girls there too.  In the late 1950s,  children’s parties meant wholesome games!  One was a type of tug-of-war, one on one.  I found myself placed opposite a girl.  Oh God!  My heart sank.  Already I was anticipating the shame – and the mockery of my classmates – beaten by a girl!  We held hands across the line.  Hoping to slow down the coming disgrace, maybe even dreaming of a draw, I put everything I had into that tug – and sent the girl flying across the room.  Obviously she hadn’t been ready.

I moved through secondary school, carefully avoiding fights all the way – and avoiding the compulsory school rugby league.  Why contest something knowing you’re going to lose?  Don’t talk to me about “the taking part” – yeah, tell that to the Marines!   “He who turns and runs away   …  etc. ”   When arm-wrestling became popular during our mid-teens, I would jokingly enter contests demanding a handicap, stating if I held the other guy for five seconds I had won.  The bluff seemed to work  – I was never going to “protest too much” and I was never really bullied.

My lack of strength never actually stopped me doing anything, even things that had a ‘tough’ image, like riding motorcycles.   “Stephen very strong” said my mother, mimicking her five year grandson. “Ha” I thought to myself, “if only he knew!”  My twenties passed into my thirties, my secret still safe. But there was always that background fear that one day I might be exposed.  And then one day in 1984, I was.

My boss was moving from his mews house and had hired one of those small, free-lance, ‘man with a van’  type house moving outfits, which came with a disparate crew, including a black giant, a crew who wouldn’t have looked out of place on an 18^th Century pirate ship or in the French Foreign Legion. These were men with pasts to escape.  No two the same, they varied in age, race, size and condition but got on with the job anyway.  I lent a hand where I could.  A feature of the house was the first floor French doors that opened out onto thin air – possibly a throwback to the original  purpose of the design.  For moving big items, this way was a lot easier than than than the cramped stairs.  A sofa was bought to the opening, ready to be lowered to the mews below.  The giant would span the difference between doorway and the street, only he couldn’t, his outstretched fingers so tantalisingly close.  Even he, clearly experienced in operating at stretch factor five, wasn’t quite tall enough to reach those final few centimetres to the temptingly close sofa.  What’s a frustrated giant to do?  Grab what’s available, of course. Without a by your leave or even any attempt at etiquette book routine, he grabbed me, all that was available, pushed me down and inserted me between his legs, commanding “give me a shoulder up”.  After all those years of careful discretion I was now going to be outed.

For a moment I thought of flat out refusal but it just didn’t seem an option.  I anticipated the sheer embarrassment at my total lack of movement, bent double under the giant’s crotch, frozen in fragility to the tune of my groans of ineffectual labour and the crew’s withering contempt as my long concealed weakness was publicly revealed.  Would this be accompanied by the sound of my crunching bones, or might I be lucky enough just to get away with a permanent hunchback?  There seemed no way out.  I stood up.  What?  I couldn’t believe it.  I just stood up.  Without any particular effort I had simply stood up with a giant on my shoulders.  It seemed like the result of some careful film editing.  I was in a daze, barely able to take in what had happened.  The giant clearly had no problem with his newly elevated status  and promptly got the sofa down onto the cobblestones.

For the next few weeks, I was like a kid who’d discovered a new toy.  I could not believe my new found capacity.  I lost count of the amount of women I carried on my shoulders – I don’t remember offering my portering services to any men.  Once, in a fit of drink fuelled bravado, I offered a very attractive young woman a lift home from the pub.  She agreed.  A walk of perhaps 300 metres brought me to her block – only that she lived on the top floor and there was no lift.  No problem.  I carried her up five flights of stairs and deposited her at her door.

It’s quite amazing what we can carry on our shoulders and even more amazing what we can carry in our heads.

Standing Up .r5 @ Stephen Kearney    September 2020