Brutally Compassionate!

Growing up on a farm in Northwestern Wisconsin might seem like a mundane way to experience childhood. There were of course times that were quite mundane, yet others were filled with adventure. As a boy, there are few things that you remember as well as your first fort, your first b.b. gun, the first time you kissed a girl, and actually liked it, the first time you got lost, the time when your parents kissed or swore in front of you, or the first fist fight.

One of my most vivid memories of childhood was the first time I was hit full in the face. My foe had worked out the very mechanics of hitting me: the need for bodily compactness, the proper fist, the assured step forward, the intent in his eyes, the virtue of a solid right. I remember thinking about it coming and an inability to move. I literally was captivated by its trajectory. I remember vividly the sound. If you’ve never been struck in the face your better off for it, but if you can identify, you will recollect the high pitch ringing. This ringing is so invasively present that you want to look to see if anyone else can hear it; of course they cannot. The ringing contributes to your overall sense of delirium. This feeling of floating, then the actual pain hits you and your little break in the day comes crashing down. One becomes keenly aware of the moments that follow.

What I remember of the instance was this sense that I had just achieved something. You know, it was as if I had entered into the realm of manhood. The place reserved for warriors, rakes, and cowboys. As I stood there stunned, because it takes a great deal to knock someone down. I was filled with this urgency to compose myself, and try not to cry. I didn’t. I remember taking three deep intentional breaths; the kind of breath that actually burns it goes so deep. The desire to cry was quickly replaced by a sense of rugged resilience.

A mature youngster would have thoroughly analyzed the situation and quickly discovered some very realistic problems with returning the aggression. I however was not this youngster. Not entirely sure where this impulse originated, I engaged the brute, mostly words at first. Words, vulgar words. You know the kind that you would never say in front of your grandmother. Words, which would strip him of value, dignity, or any sense of pride for his action against me. This was followed by the wind of a left coming at my chin. A near miss that was countered with a direct hit in the right eye of Goliath.

You know you would think that this would give a young guy defending himself against an infidel, a real sense of pleasure. I wanted to feel like I had just saved the day, or that I had at least asserted my will upon the mountain. Perhaps, the mountain had been conquered. However I still felt like I was in the valley. I wasn’t filled with pride, the way a champion should. Instead, I filled with pity, sadness, even a genuine remorse for my adversary.

I must have gotten hit harder than I thought, because I began to be concerned with the details of this kids life. I wondered why this idea to strike me was acceptable to him? I had wondered how many times he experienced this himself? I wondered who taught him to throw a strong right? Did his father strike him? Did he have a father?

As the encounter broke up, and the swelling in my left jaw was met with the swelling of empathy, I found myself broken in an altogether different way. Filled with the weight of my unethical encounter, I saw for the first time how incapable I was of really loving. Not that I was at all enamored with this kid, but the general idea of love for fellow man, had escaped me. In the days following, I became more aware of the damage my words may have caused an already abused kid. I even felt like slugging myself. Interesting how something as simple as turning the other cheek can call out another’s greatness, diminishing violence.