Homer | Previous Challenge Entry

how it works

TITLE: Homer | Previous Challenge Entry
By Tracy Goforth
06/12/14
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Homer sat down on the steps outside of Thomas Jefferson Middle, feeling completely defeated. Once again, the bullies in fourth had pulled his spirit low. And here they came, out the doors whooping and hollering for the weekend. Homer couldn’t imagine how they got through two days of not picking on him because of his name.
“Well, there sits ol’ Homer Simpson. Where’s Marge?” they said for the twentieth time that day it seemed. Lame. Seems they could come up with something a little more colorful than one or two lines. Bullies aren’t known for their intelligence, however, but even this fact couldn’t make Homer feel better.
They walked past him, flicking his Red Sox hat from his head. Homer watched it bounce two steps past his Nike’s. The group stopped beside him each taking a step above and below him to glare. The second line of their repertoire came as expected.
“Homey got to get to work at the sewage plant. Hurry, Homey. Mr. Smithers will be mad if you’re late.” The words spewed with such hatred that was so unwarranted. Homer had barely spoken to these boys all year. He wasn’t a jock. He wasn’t a bookworm. He floated the middle, and only had a few friends but they were good ones. He didn’t fit a profile to be bullied at all. What was it with these guys, picking him out of lots of other kids. Then he thought, no. He was simply among lots of other kids, their victims.
He knew the drill. Keep silent until they left. If he came back with anything, they would grab it and not let go until he was a heap on the bottom of the steps and lucky not to be bruised up. He kept his mouth shut and hoped to weather this storm out. He got lucky. A better victim was getting on his bike just below them. Stan Stillwell. Horn-rimmed glasses and all. The bullies took flight and were on him like white on rice, thankfully forgetting Homer until Monday. Homer sighed with relief and started for his hat, thinking how long exactly would it take it mother to pick him up. He hoped it was before Stan could get away from them.
As he rose, Mike Ledford, the coolest, quarterback to the Jefferson Jets, was standing before him, holding his hat out to him. Homer tried to stifle the shock and keep his fact rock solid.
“You know,” Mike began, as he sat down beside him, “Homer is a pretty awesome name.”
“Tell that to those kabobs,” Homer said.
Mike’s laugh was booming. The bullies looked up, saw him with Homer, and the shock in their eyes was apparent. Even took a moment to stare at this odd pairing at the top of the steps, which gave lucky Stan a chance to skedaddle away on this bike like lightening.
“Homer wrote some great stuff. Hear of the Iliad. Or the Odyssey. Best Greek poems there are. Homer isn’t just a Simpson, man.”
Homer stared at Mike. How could a jock know all that.
“I’ve learned one thing, my friend. Know who you are. Do you know Jesus?” Mike asked.
“Yes, I do,” Homer told him.
“You know who you are, then, if you know Him. You’re his Kid. Nothing is impossible for you, you’re given everything already. Those clowns are just sandpaper to you, shining up a diamond. Keep that in mind next time they call you Simpson. You’re a lot more, kid.”
With that, Mike got up and held out his hand for a high-five. Homer returned it. Mike bounded down the steps and looked into the faces of the bullies, who definitely were in shock still.
Homer stood up tall on the steps, and bounded down them too as his mom pulled up.
“See ya Monday, guys!” He said. They stared at him as he went. And for the first time, they looked mighty small to Homer.

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