Well, we recently had another free-for-all at Castleton Square here in Indy that caused the mall to shut down. I know what you’re thinking. I’m here to talk about how Black adults with poor parenting skills have moved to Northeastern Indy, and their progeny will eventually do to Castleton Square what they did to Lafayette Square. You’re wrong. I’m here to talk about something far more important.
It’s been reported that a number of participants were as young as fourteen-years-old. Fourteen. If any of you have seen the videos, you can see many of them, who, like most of the boys, were holding their respective trousers up with one hand while punching with the other hand. I guess it’s still a fair fight when both combatants are punching with only one hand. But that’s not even what’s important.
I can say it on one word. Curfew. Are you kidding me? My curfew in high school started out at 11pm. I bitched it up to midnight in my sophomore year of high school. My friends were going to parties and dances that lasted until 3am. I was frustrated because I had to go home so early. They were frustrated because they often had to drop me off home between parties.
I’m not stupid. Of course I broke curfew, but I was rarely more than an hour late. Sometimes I got caught, sometimes I didn’t. I turned 18 on 12/05/1975. My curfew endured until I graduated high school in June of 1976 where it converted to a 3am curfew. For six months a grown-assed man with a job had to be home by midnight, or he’d get his car taken away – a car provided to him by the parents invoking the curfew. The only way I could get out of the curfew was to go off to college.
Okay, maybe having a curfew wasn’t so bad. It helped to provide a modicum of discipline to a largely undisciplined young man. I got enough discipline to know to not ruin a good time with a fight, or go home first. I learned, also, to wear a belt whenever needed.