A History of Violence

Reflections on personal violence.

In a recent post, "Manly Things", I wrote on being proud I beat up a couple of school bullies. Here is what I said.

Beating up the class bullies. Did it twice. Don't want to fight ever again, but still feel good about doing it.

I've been thinking of those two events as well as other incidences of violence in my life. I am not going to write about the usual fights my older (and only) brother and I had. They never got violent. I want to write on my other experiences about personal violence.

My first memories of fighting violence are from the early 70's. I was in preschool- kindergarten. My dad worked for the Bureau of Indian Affairs as an engineer on irrigation systems. We were living in Lower Brule, South Dakota on an Indian reservation during the same time the American Indian Movement (AIM) was flaring up at the neighboring Pine Ridge Indian Reservation at Wounded Knee. Being the white kids of a government employee during this time was not easy. I am not going to write about the politics and the different sides of the issues. At four years old, my only side was keeping from getting beat up, and that was it.

On a regular basis, my brother and\I would get cornered and forced to fight or take a beating from a classmate or two. My brother is five years older than me. I learned a hard lesson. If I won the fight, I had to fight my opponents older brother or sister. At one point I had to learn when to take the beating over winning the fight. My brother had the same problems. He would jump in and protect me if I was way over-matched, but he had his own back to watch.

The tensions and violence moved onto death threats against my family. My parents taught my brother how to steer the car if one of them was shot while driving. We also learned that if someone started shooting at our home, to crawl into the bathroom and to get into the caste-iron bathtub for protection with my mom laying on us and my dad laying on the floor with a shotgun. Fortunately the worst that happened was that someone kept shooting out our porch light with a BB gun. Within weeks, we moved to Reliance, SD 15 miles away and off the reservation. My dad had to make that lonely commute everyday and we were scared for him. The most dangerous events though were the occasional tornado that came through town.

The two times I faced bullies are the only two fights I feel proud about. Dean was the neighborhood bully. He was in my grade, but had been held back twice. In fifth grade, he turned violent. He would beat up, intimidate and hurt boys, girls, pets, or whatever was in his way. I now know his home-life was hell and his life of violence went beyond his own anger. One afternoon, he started whipping my friend Brian with his leather belt. He kept saying, "C',mon chicken, belt fight me." I pushed Dean away as Brian was laying on the ground curled up trying protect himself. Dean turned to me and said, "You want a belt fight?" I didn't have a belt. Another kid threw me his. Dean smacked me once across my back with his belt. I had never been in a belt fight and that lash hurt a lot... so I broke the rules. I grabbed the end of his belt, pulled him close, knocked him down, and started throwing punches. He had a cut lip, black eye, and some bruises by the time I stopped. I got up and walked away. I was the first kid to stand up to Dean. I don't think he learned any lessons, but I felt I had done the right thing. A year or two later, Dean turned to drugs as his outlet. After high school, Dean joined the navy. I heard it changed him for the better. The last I heard, Dean was married and working at the local refinery.

My second fight against a bully was in 8th grade. Randy noticed I was quiet and when I became agitated my speech impediment would kick in. Every once in a while Randy and his friends would jump me, tease me, and throw me against my locker, then move off. By this time I was 6'4" ( over 6 inches taller and 20 lbs heavier) yet had not learned that meant I had an advantage because I had not fought anybody since Dean. Randy liked to pick on kids. He seemed to get joy from it. One day at lunch, I was sitting with my friend Sean and Randy and a friend of his sat at our table. I instantly went quiet. Randy kicked me under the table. I glared at him. I didn't want to say anything or my speech impediment would come out due to my anger. He kicked me again, harder. In a split second, I leaned over the table and using my long reach, grabbed his long hair and smashed his face into his lunch, hard. I then jumped across the table and started pounding on him. The lunch monitors pulled me off of him. I tried to explain that he had kicked me, but my words would not come out. We both were taken to the principal's office. He had a big bruise on his head. My hands really hurt from hitting him. The principal called Randy in first, then me. I was in shock. Randy actually confessed to kicking me before I jumped the table. We were both given detention for two days.

My dad came and picked me up from school. He asked me, "Were you in the right?" I stammered out, "yes." He nodded and we were silent for the drive home.

At home he sat me down and told me something that I am still trying to figure out what he meant. He said that now that I had a man's body like his, (he is 6'6") I needed to learn a rule about fighting. "Never start a fight with anybody shorter than you. If you win, you beat up a short guy. If you lose, you lost to a short guy." While I understand the basic idea, I wonder why he told me that then. As for Randy, he left me alone and I didn't see much of him other than the occasional hallway passing for the next few years.

It is interesting, the two times I learned how much damage I could do were when I hurt a girl, once physically and once verbally. Both incidents are on my top 5 list of life regrets. The first time was when I was five. My best friend was Stephanie. We played all the time. One day she said something to me that made me so mad. She started to ride off on her bike and I picked up a rock and threw it at her. It hit her in the head and knocked her off her bike. At first, I was (and still am) shocked that I actually hit her. I have never thrown anything accurately, except that one time. When I saw her fall I knew that I did something very wrong. I ran to her and she was holding her head and crying. I went and got my mom, a nurse, and she helped her. I confessed to what I did and felt so bad. I am crying writing this. The hardest part came later that day when my mom made me tell Stephanie's parents about what I did. I had to own my violence.

The second time I hurt a girl was when I used language as my violent weapon. Shauna and I were in 7th grade. Shauna, my friend Christopher, her friend Claire and I were walking home from the bus stop. We were joking about puberty. Without thinking, I pointed at Shauna's chest and asked mockingly, "When are you going to grow some tits?" Within one second, she slapped me open handed across my face as hard as she could. It was one of those slaps that could be heard from a great distance. I felt the red welt swell on my left cheek and it burned like hell. My eyes started watering instantly from the harsh pain. Shauna ran home crying and Claire followed her. Chris just looked at me and said, "You deserved that one." I knew it too. Later that night I asked Chris to go to Shauna's with a note of apology. It took a few weeks for the ice to thaw, but Shauna and I became friends again. In some bit of minor irony, puberty hit Shauna in 8th grade, during which she grew to fill D-cups in just months. That lesson taught me that words can be as violent as hands.

So, what have I learned from all this? I have not been in a physical fight since I jumped the table in 8th grade. I never want a fight, but I can if needed. I also know that I am not an innocent person. I've hurt others who were innocent and was the bully for it. Maybe the ass-kickings that I gave Dean and Randy are similar to the one Shauna gave me. Her slap taught me a lesson that is still teaching (and smarting).