A Righteous Beating

I'm pretty sure I was in the fifth grade when I beat the stuffing out of a kid in the middle of class and got in absolutely no trouble for it.

I was in class and we were doing some kind of independent seat work and a kid came back from the school's main office. He walked up to me and said, "Chris --- they told me you need to come to the main office. Someone in your family died."

I must have gone pale; how could anyone not? I can still feel the bottom of everything dropping and shattering underneath me. I went to the teacher -- he was a young man; whom we will keep anonymous, because this little tale is as much about him as me, in the end -- and I told him that the boy had said they asked for me in the office. He let me go.

I walked into the office, with much wringing of hands and embroiled in a Herculean battle within my throat, as speaking and crying contended like the sea and wind. The secretary asked me what I wanted and I told her I heard they needed me. She told me this was not true.

"Everyone in my family is ok?" I asked.

"As far as we know... No one called us..." (She did not call me "dear" or "honey." He lip might even have curled a little as she spoke to me. She was a middle school secretary. She was not allowed to treat children like human beings. I think it was part of their contract.)

I don't remember the walk back to class, but I do remember launching myself over a desk and the sound of my fists pounding the meaty face of the kid who had lied to me. I got in a good number of punches before the teacher waded through he desks and had us both clamped and nearly hanging by the collars.

"What's wrong with you?" he asked me, no doubt astounded by my actions. I'd never gotten so much as a rebuke in school since kindergarten.

I told him what the other boy had done.

He let go of me and turned the other kid around to face him. There was some blood. The teacher stared at my victim for what seemed a full minute. "Did you, or did you not deserve what you just got?" he asked the boy. The kid nodded once. "Go clean yourself up," the teacher said, and it was back to business as usual. (My hands hurt but I knew better than not to get right back to diagramming my sentences.)

Never another word was said about it. 

You might find it ironic if I were to say that this is a story from a more civilized time, but you would be wrong. 

The Benefits of Getting Punched in the Face

A former student of mine (thanks, Andrew) posted this meme yesterday and it rang so true for me that I had to share it. It is probably not what you expect, but here it is:

I can't say I have ever seen a truer idea and I truly believe that being punched in the face really served a purpose for me.

Sure, I fought as a kid in playground scraps, but, once, I was driving to school on a rainy morning and -- I don't remember why -- I had to hit the brakes, hard, almost slamming into the car in front of me. Apparently that angered a guy behind me, who followed me in to the school parking lot and punched me in right in the jaw as I got out of my car.

He connected pretty well. It really didn't hurt. More importantly, it did no damage either to my heart or my body.

I wish I could tell you about how I knocked him out, but he was back in his car and gone before I knew (literally) what his me.

Take the metaphor where you will, but it happened to me a few other times in my life and, for me, it serves as a reminder that even the most violent things are not necessarily as bad as they seem. After all, what sounds worse than "getting punched in the face"?

I have often thought about that punch when facing challenges and this meme reminded me of that.

Beautiful Violence?

Pacifism always looked cool to me when I was younger, for two reasons. First, it seemed lofty; Christ-like; it reeked of philosophical commitment. Second -- if we're being honest -- it is a very convenient excuse for not having to be "manly," at least it the realm of physical confrontation: "I'm not a wimp -- I'm a pacifist." I know now (as I knew then, of course) that being a man isn't all about bar brawls -- but, when the time comes for, say, self-defense, declaring one's self a pacifist can be a convenient back door.

The exceptional lead cast of Foyle's war. 

I remember watching M.A.S.H, the situation comedy set in the Korean War (maybe the biggest screw-up of a war in world history) and I used to admire the rebellious nature of the Army surgeons, "Hawkeye" and "B.J." -- their distaste for war; their commitment to their Hippocratic oaths. I still do. They found themselves locked into a war they didn't start or condone; they literally waded in blood trying to save the lives of the young victims of that war and they did everything they could to show the tides of politics and violence that they could be forced to be there, but not to conform to everything.

The message is different, though, elsewhere. Recently, I have been watching the delightful Foyle's War -- a wonderful BBC mystery series centered around Detective Chief Inspector Foyle (Michael Kitchen). The show is set in Hastings during WWII. Foyle, a WWI vet, is, as NPR TV critic David Bianculli put it, "so square you could play checkers on him" -- which Bianculli goes on to explain is meant as a compliment. And you see what he means as you watch Foyle operate with unwavering ethical standards and a with complete commitment to being the quintessential gentleman. But Foyle is clear on one thing in particular: commitment to the war effort. Very different than Hawkeye Pierce; but, of course, his circumstances were very different as well.

A Justified Punch in the Beazer

I saw this video last night. It's not new news, but it was the first I had seen it:



I have written about violence before. I hate it. I have not gotten into a fight since the playground in boyhood, and, even then, I remember being reluctant to hit back the kid who was hitting me, for fear I might hurt him. Even then, I realized that it just is not worth blinding someone over a dirty play in a pick-up football game.

A Time to Throw Down

Yes, I am fully aware that my posts sometimes run in themes. And I am unashamed. So, here's another on on the parenthood...thing. (I do, so, try to avoid the word "parenting.")

My sons love to hit me with hypothetical situations. Bear in mind, these are the hypotheticals of a nine and eleven-year-old. I get things like: "If the house were on fire, would you save us or the dog?" Of course, when I answer that I would save all of them, I get: "But if you had to choose..." When I say I would save my sons over the dog, I usually get lambasted and then have to sit through a sermon on how ridiculous it is that everyone, including God, thinks humans are more important than animals. It's around that point that I pretend to get a phone call or something -- rather than get into the labyrinth of logic that sprouts out of the fact that I really do, in many ways, prefer animals to humans...

Little Shadowboxers

My mother always was very much against guns. As a kid, I never had a toy gun, outside of the occasional water pistol. Mind you, I really wanted to have toy guns and I would greedily claim any available weapon at friends' houses before playing "war" or any other violence-based games. At home, though, I was, as they say on the mean streets, without a "piece."

At my wife's house, in her childhood, things were a little different. Toy guns were allowed, as were BB guns in the later years. Legend has it that there was a rifle incident in the back yard of their suburban home that left a tree somewhat worse for wear. Karen grew up with two brothers, both of whom own hunting guns and bows to this day. For the record, neither of them has ever killed a man. (Nor has my wife, to the best of my knowledge.) Both of them are throrougly nice guys and one of them is one hell of a dancer. (Just thought I'd mention that, in light of the wedding I attended last night.)

Hemispheres

Can a fist fight be good? -- at least for self-understanding? I had one that was, I think.

I remember some scraps from boyhood, mostly while playing football with neighborhood friends. But there was one fight that I remember to this day because, in the middle of it, I became immediately aware of the significance of my thoughts. I was about ten.

It was fall and we were on a tree-lined field; our usual football arena. It was cold, getting close-up on winter. Everyone played the game hard, with that energy that kids radiate during their few hours of freedom under fall clouds and falling dark on a school night. 

The original "Rocky": Marciano

Something happened with an elbow -- he claimed it was mine -- and the other guy came after me, swinging maniacally.

The End of an Argument (A Dialogue)

Setting: An abandoned farmhouse.

At rise: Two men enter, sit at opposite sides of a table, upon old crates, and look at each other for a long time before speaking.

Man 1: What do you have to say, today?

Man 2: The same thing as yesterday.

Man 1: Then, don't bother.

Man 2: Why are we here, then?

Man 1: To talk again.

Man 2: To argue again. What do you think will happen?