In light of our nation’s 250th birthday, my mind drifts back to 1976, when, as a grade school student, I was the proud owner of a bicentennial lunchbox, exactly like the one pictured here. 

As a history nerd, I preferred the Founding Fathers to “The Fonz,” Donny and Marie, and Evel Knievel. Rather than Marvel superheroes, the various sides of my cool lunchbox featured George Washington, Paul Revere, Betsy Ross, Valley Forge soldiers, and Boston Tea Partiers. 

Not only did this lunchbox serve a utilitarian purpose (i.e., carrying my daily provision of grilled cheese sandwiches – a story for another day), it also afforded me an opportunity to showcase my patriotism. 

Soon, however, I discovered an additional use of said lunchbox. It would become the equivalent of a defensive flintlock musket.

For a little context, bullying has been around at least since King George III provoked the colonies, and in 1976, I found myself being bullied on Bus 39. 

As Thomas Paine wrote, “These are the times that try men’s souls,” and after some days of victimization, I had reached my limits.

One particular morning, I announced to my mother that, if the harassment continued that day, I would proceed to hit my adversary in the head with my lunchbox. 

Now, my mother is not a condoner of violence, and in her defense, she was busy grilling my cheese sandwiches (again, a story for another day) in the midst of other activities. My declaration of war was, no doubt, lost within her multitasking.

Later that afternoon, I boarded the bus for my return ride home. My nemesis sat directly behind me. The picking began before the bus left the parking lot, and my fingers tightened around the handle of my lunchbox.

Then, with the immediacy of a minuteman, and the courage and strength of a true Son of Liberty, I turned and swung at my oppressor’s head. The lunchbox’s metal edge caught the corner of the Redcoat’s eye, and it immediately began to turn blue.

“No taxation without representation!” I declared with righteous indignation. “Don’t tread on me!” I exclaimed. “I have not yet begun to fight!” I shouted. 

Okay, that is not what I said. In fact, I remained completely silent while I shared in my antagonist’s shock. This Loyalist Tory was dumbfounded at having been slammed with my lunchbox, and I was equally speechless at having actually carried out that morning’s promise.  

Our bus driver had witnessed the altercation, and she made her way back to the battleground. Halfway regretting my violent outburst and halfway knowing I was in trouble, I burst into tears. The driver, while trying to address the confrontation in a serious manner, was simultaneously suppressing a smile at my meltdown.

Our principal subsequently applied a wooden paddle to my rebel “aspirations,” and this was accompanied by an admonishment that I could have put an eye out. (FYI, my indiscretion would later serve as a warning for a movie character named Ralphie in “A Christmas Story,” and my lunchbox would be translated into a Red Ryder BB gun.)

Although that paddle “bit me right in the but-tocks” (just for fun, read that in the voice of Forrest Gump), it was worth it. Victory and independence had been won. My provoker never bothered me again.

I don’t recall what happened to my bicentennial lunchbox. Maybe it was impounded as evidence. Maybe it was sold in a yard sale. Maybe it’s actually the one pictured here, the image of which I came across on Facebook Marketplace.

But I’d like to believe it’s in a museum somewhere, commemorating a Patriot underdog’s stance against the tyranny of bullies in the pivotal Battle of Bus 39, and next to it is a small brass plaque engraved with:

“Give me liberty, or I’ll give you the lunchbox.”