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May 2006

By Michael T. Dolan

It was a typical day in a fourth grade classroom. The teacher had just finished a lesson about Leif Erikson, John Cabot, Samuel de Champlain, and the rest of Europe’s sea-faring explorers.

During morning recess, while chatting with a classmate next to me, conversation turned to Coke and Pepsi. Dennis, the classmate, began championing the cause of Pepsi, declaring his love of the cola and his preference of it over Coke.

This was a new experience for me, for up until that point in my life, I had never encountered someone who preferred Pepsi to Coke. Sure, I suppose I knew that Pepsi drinkers had to exist somewhere, but they were unknown to me. In my mind, these individuals were relegated to countries like Russia, China, North Korea, and Cuba – communist countries all.

This was 1984, and I was an 80s Cold War kid. No, I don’t have grand stories of air raid drills and hiding underneath desks, but that doesn’t mean I escaped the Cold War.

Everywhere I looked there was evidence of it, and the images formulated my early beliefs of good and evil. To that end, anything that opposed the U.S.A. was evil, and most likely communist.
This was reinforced by the likes of James Bond, Indiana Jones, and the reemergence of G.I. Joe in cartoon form. Throughout the 80s it was played out in movies like Red Dawn, Rocky IV, and Rambo. It showed up on television in the form of the A-Team and syndicated episodes of Hogan’s Heroes. Sting sung about it in "Russians" on my favorite album at the time, Dream of the Blue Turtles. "Missile Command" was an Atari staple.

In hindsight, it seems the face of the enemy was beginning to change during this time. While so much of it pointed directly to communism and communist regimes, more and more the enemy was beginning to be portrayed by the unknown. More often than not, the unknown took the form of terrorism. News of the decade began to be dominated by hijacked planes, assassinations in foreign countries, kidnappings and hostage countdowns. Cultural production followed suit.

The enemy in G.I. Joe was the masked lunatic Cobra Commander. Every day at 3:30 the television would reinforce the message: “G.I. Joe is the code name for America's daring, highly trained special mission force. Its purpose, to defend human freedom against Cobra – a ruthless, terrorist organization determined to rule the world.”

As a nine-year-old child in 1984, however, communism was still the number one enemy. As such, I branded anything that was un-American or anti-American as communist! Furthermore, I viewed Coke as the all-American beverage. It stood for tradition. It stood for family. It stood for holding hands in peaceful harmony.

Pepsi, however, was that other drink. It was the competitor, the challenger, and the enemy. Indeed, it was the drink of communists.

Imagine my surprise, then, to discover a Pepsi-drinker on home soil! There he was, sitting next to me in a fourth grade classroom! The discovery made my blood boil. What blasphemy! Dennis was a traitor to the all-American drink!

I couldn’t believe my ears, and so asked for clarification: “You like Pepsi more than Coke?”

“Yup. Coke sucks.”

How dare he say that! Coke is all-American! He used the word “sucks” too! That was pretty powerful language in the fourth grade.

Defending the honor of my nation and my favorite beverage, I replied with an insult my 1980s upbringing had developed.

“Commie scum!”

Without hesitation, Dennis summarily issued the ultimate boyhood challenge:

“Call you out.”

Though an invitation and question at heart, the words were carefully phrased in such a way as to leave no doubt that this was, in fact, a declaration. There was no declining this invitation.

“Okay,” I said.

“3:00. Holy Child schoolyard.”

“Fine.”

“Fine.”

A fight was on!

Or so Dennis thought. I had no choice but to accept the challenge, but that in no way meant I planned on participating. It wasn’t so much fear of fighting Dennis that bothered me, but rather the fear of fighting. Throwing punches at someone, getting punches thrown in return – this was a whole different level of getting in trouble, one which I very much wanted to avoid.

At 3:00 that afternoon, I found myself in the middle of a game of chess with a good friend, Kevin. Throughout the day I pretended the incident with Dennis never transpired. The encounter was in the back of my head, like a dental pain you try to ignore, hoping it will just go away.

It didn’t.

As 3:00 approached, Kevin asked what I wanted to do about the fight.

Nervous and upset, I told him I wasn’t going. Then I moved my bishop into attack position.
3:00 came and went, and for a moment a sense of relief passed over me.

It was short-lived, however. Minutes later the doorbell rang. I was startled, but still optimistic that perhaps this was the paperboy or a neighbor visiting. After all, what kid would go to someone’s home and demand a fight?

“Uh, excuse me, Mrs. Dolan. Is Mike there? I want to beat him up.”

I forgot with whom I was dealing. This was Dennis, after all, a nemesis since first grade (and probably before that if our strollers ever passed as toddlers). Literally, a kid from the other side of the tracks. Someone who routinely used the word “sucks,” not to mention many of the colorful curse words that were beginning to issue down from the upper grades in the schoolyard. This was a kid whose gut reaction to being called a “commie scum” was to fight it out.

Still, I held out hope it was the paperboy.

My mom answered the door and it soon became apparent that Dennis wasn’t at the door. Rather, it was his “representative.” Another kid from the other side of the tracks, Danny spoke pretty much as Dennis would have:

“Uh, excuse me, Mrs. Dolan. Is Mike there? Dennis is up at Holy Child waiting to fight him.”

Some kids have balls, to be used when necessary and as appropriate. Some kids have none (in this particular instance, I fell into this category). And others, well, others live by their balls. Dennis and Danny were two such individuals.

Kevin, my representative, explained the situation to my mom and then went to Holy Child to call off the fight. He brokered the peace, with the stipulation that I apologize to Dennis the next day in class.

Later that afternoon, after Kevin had gone home, my mom simply said to me:

“You know, Mike, you have to be careful with words. People can take them different ways.”

It was a profound lesson, and one from which I am continuing to learn.

The next day I apologized to Dennis and peace was sealed with a handshake.

The peace didn’t last, though. After all, Dennis at heart was a Pepsi-lover, and I had Coke in my blood. The two of us simply could not find a way to co-exist.

Throughout grade school and high school, Dennis and I traveled in the same pack of friends. While never close friends, we learned to tolerate each other and a pseudo-friendship developed from a shared history of experiences. Bumps arose every now and again, but a handshake was never far behind. In reality, though, the handshake was always artificial, for neither of us was ever really sorry for our latest transgression against the other. We both realized, however, that the handshake would help us co-exist for a little while longer.

In 1993, as seniors in high school and a full decade since I first called Dennis “commie scum,” we finally came to blows. As far as fights go, I suppose it wasn’t much of one. A few punches here, a push or two to the ground, a few more punches. Within a minute or so, it was over. In drunken anger, Dennis stormed off toward home, cursing into the night.

Following him, however, was my “representative” from that memorable day in fourth grade – Kevin. Unbeknownst to me, he had gone off to broker the peace.

A little while later, Kevin came back to the scene of the crime and told me that Dennis was outside and wanted to talk.

I wanted no parts of a peace-making mission and said as such.

Kevin was persistent, though, and wouldn’t give up. I remember his words clearly.

“Mike, just go talk to him. It’s better to have friends in this world than enemies.”

Reluctantly, I listened to Kevin’s advice and met Dennis in the street.

Under the light of a streetlamp, we leaned against the hood of a car and made peace for the last time.

“We never did get along,” Dennis started.

I agreed.

“I’m not sure why,” he continued.

And then we both wondered aloud.

“Maybe it was the way we were raised.”

“We’re different people.”

“Our parents are nothing alike.”

“We have different backgrounds.”

“Our families are different.”

“You love Pepsi. I love Coke.”

We laughed.

Acknowledging our differences did not necessarily lead us to respect those differences, but it did allow us to accept that there are differences. And that’s a start.

As we shook hands yet again, Dennis said to me:

“We mean it this time. We’re over it.”

It was both a declaration and a question.

I agreed.

We were – and we are – over it.

It gives one hope for the future – hope for a world furnished with love, with apple trees and honey bees, and snow white turtle doves.

Indeed, I’d like to teach the world to sing in perfect harmony.

If Coke and Pepsi can co-exist in peaceful harmony, perhaps world peace is possible after all . . .