A teenage cowboy, my brother and some bullies

In my eyes, he was the toughest kid in the school. And some 20 years later he feels even bigger in my mind and heart. Let me tell you a story about a strapping young cowboy who loved my brother.

His name was Jessie Brown. He went to my church, and was about two years younger than I. He was an imposing young man, who stood over 6 feet tall, with strapping shoulders and a strong back he no doubt sculpted by doing work that country boys who wear cowboy boots tend to do.

Jessie spoke with just a bit of a drawl. He had a model-quality handsomeness with a strong chin -- facial features not too different from singer George Strait. I remember him having a mischievous grin and a tough streak about him. He had friends who were not as gracious as he was, who had mile-wide mean streaks.

I didn't know Jessie extremely well. I only knew him for a short time. But even as an underclassman, he was an alpha male. Physically imposing, tough; he was a guy you wouldn't want to cross. He was a hard-nosed, fun-loving cowboy, known to partake of chewing tobacco after the Sunday service. He had a warm, teasing sense of humor, too. He was a good ol' boy, in the best sense of the phrase. And he was a leader, without trying.

I had entered my senior year at Meadow Heights as a new kid at the school. I experienced some mild but persistent bullying; it made for a rather miserable experience. Jessie and I had virtually nothing in common, but we got along well at church functions involving the youth. He didn't bully me. I liked him. But that's not why I came to admire him.

I admire him for what he did for my younger brother. Jim, whom we called Jimmy when he was little and has a severe learning disability. I knew the culture at Meadow Heights in the mid-1990s. It was, from my perspective, the opposite of welcoming for a new kid, but then what high school is?

My kid brother has a speech defect that makes him difficult to understand. If you live in the Cape Girardeau and Jackson area, you may have seen him when he was a cart pusher at the Jackson Wal-Mart several years ago. Jimmy has light hair, wears glasses, is unusually short with a stocky build, a big smile and bigger heart; he is known to get a bit snippy when you don't follow the rules or ask him to deviate from his work assignment and schedule. When he lived in Jackson, Jim was a strong supporter of the basketball team. Coach Darrin Scott welcomed him and let him be part of it as water boy.

My brother has some odd mannerisms, but is very loving if you know him. He's a hugger. He attended special education classes at Meadow Heights when I was a senior and met Jessie Brown; Jimmy would've been about 12 at the time, also new to the school. I worried about Jimmy. Slight in stature, he had gone through many foot surgeries as a young boy and he walked with an insecure gait. His mental disability was obvious. If high school students, some younger than I, were making my life difficult, I worried that my kid brother might be experiencing even worse. I had coping mechanisms -- sports, a girlfriend, friends I could count on. Jimmy did not.

You'll have to excuse my recollection of my conversation with Jessie. It was more than 20 years ago now. It happened in one of the back pews of Little Whitewater Baptist Church, which can be found on a Bollinger County dirt road between Patton and Scopus, in the Mayfield Hollow, pronounced "Holler."

My quotes may not be exactly accurate; I was not taking notes at the time, but Jessie told me something to this effect:

"I just want you to know I saw some kids picking on Jim the other day," he said. He began to explain the scenario, which included teenagers much older than Jimmy, but I don't remember what he said.

I only remember my wild range of thoughts as my heart sank and my blood boiled. How am I going to handle this? Who do I need to tell? Should I take the matter into my own hands? Who was it? Jessie read the worried expression on my face, and said, firmly, all that needed to be said.

"They won't be doing that anymore."

He did not elaborate. Or if he did, it didn't stick with me. I don't know if a physical altercation occurred or merely a threat of such was enough. But Jessie used his stature, cashed in on his standing in the school and took care of my brother. I thanked him, but I wish I would've made it known to Jessie how big of a deal that was to me.

Jessie died a few years later, in 1998, at age 19, the result of a car crash.

The tough young cowboy left behind a wife. His obituary says Jessie was a drywall finisher. He was a finisher, all right.

Jessie's act left a huge impression with me that only grew as I got older. Some would call it tough. I would call it compassion. It was an act of love.

This week, we had a great national tragedy, where a mentally ill person, filled with hate, killed nine people while they were attending a prayer meeting. The deranged shooter is grabbing headlines, which is necessary. But I'm here today to celebrate those who are making a positive difference, quietly. I imagine there are thousands of quiet heroes across the country standing up for the weak. I would love for more of those stories to be heard.

I can't help but feel that Jessie would've been a great father. The young man showed great character in protecting Jimmy. I felt much better after graduating that at least for a couple of years, Jessie would be on the watch. I'll never forget it.

I have carried Jessie's actions in my heart for a long time. Every time I read a bullying story I think of him.

I tell my oldest son that we should treat everyone with love and respect; that just because someone is different -- and as long as they're not hurting others -- their difference doesn't give us the right or the moral authority to treat them as less than equals. Before people are rich, before they are strong or weak, before they are poor or gay or straight, black or white or handicapped or cowboys with broad shoulders, they are people. We all have humanity in common. We all have hearts and minds and feelings.

Before I moved to Meadow Heights, I watched others bully a girl in our class. I even participated occasionally. I wish I could go back and have Jessie's courage to do what was right.

It's my responsibility to teach my sons. I hope over time they will understand that I want them do unto others as they would want others to do unto them.

But I hope they do more than that.

I hope my sons understand that strength and character are built in the face of adversity, including standing up for the harmless outcasts and the hurting.

On this Father's Day, my hope is that our children find the strength in their hearts to do the right things for the right reasons.

Do you have a real-life story about someone standing up for you when you or someone you know were being bullied? Share your story with me at bmiller@semissourian.com.