WFW - The Fighter

When you change schools in the middle of the third grade, and you already smoke
cigarettes, it narrows your choice of friends in the new neighborhood. I started
hanging out with Tommy within a couple months. He smoked, got in a lot of fist
fights, and told jokes I had never heard before, and really couldn’t repeat to
anybody else.

During my years hanging out with Tommy, I sneaked out in the middle of the
night in summertime, did a bit of vandalism, shoplifting, fighting – sometimes as
teams against gangs from other schools, sometimes against each other. We
looked up to older guys, who were further along the same path. Lots of our
friends had spent some time in Skipworth – the Lane County’s ‘juvie’ hall. Some
of our more hardened role models had done serious time in Maclaren up in
Woodburn. They called Maclaren a reform school, but, judging from the guys
coming out of there, the only reforming going on was honing the skills they would
need as future adult criminals. Though I was in awe of these guys, I really didn’t
want to emulate them. Even when I was immersed in this, I didn’t see it as my
future, and tried to stay on the periphery; keeping one foot on a straighter path.
If we had been caught in some of our adventures though, my path might have
been decided for me – at least in the short term.

I got in a lot of fights, both within my gang, and with other kids at school.
Sometimes it would be a spontaneous flurry of fists, but at least a couple times a
year, I would be ‘featured’ in an arranged after-school fight on the playground,
that other kids would plan for. Because so many of the kids I hung out with did
this same thing, I thought it was normal. It wasn’t, even then. A number of kids I
grew up with are now Facebook friends. And at least a few of them tell me I was
the only person they ever fought. It is my shame that I sometimes don’t even
remember fighting them … much of that time is a blur of stimulus and out-of-
control response. At a high school reunion a few years ago, I ran into somebody I
hadn’t seen since graduation. He didn’t remember me at first, but when it finally
dawned on him, he blurted out ‘You’re left-handed, aren’t you?’ I am, and
confirmed that, and he mentioned that I had broken his nose with a left hook.

The shame I carry from that period of my life, and the osteoarthritis in my hands
and wrists are the legacy of my lack of impulse control.

I don’t blame my Dad for my pugnacious nature, but he was an influence,
whether intentional or not. He grew up tough in Hoquiam, on the Washington
coast, had been a varsity boxer in high school, and continued boxing in the Navy
during the Second World War – when they would set up a boxing ring on the deck
of the aircraft carrier he served on. One year, he gave me and my brothers each a
pair of boxing gloves for Christmas. It was all well-intentioned, but in my young
mind, it validated the idea of using my fists. Dad would tell me, ‘Never start a
fight, but once you’re in one … finish it!’ No doubt, this is advice he was given by
his Dad, and he just passed it on.

I don’t know for sure what broke me of the tendency to fight. Two things
contributed. Some of my friends’ older brothers were being drafted and sent to
Vietnam – and in a couple cases, not coming back. I didn’t believe in that war,
and wanted to be a contentious objector, but thought that a life punctuated by
violence might work against gaining that status. The other factor was marijuana.

In junior high, some of my buddies started smoking pot, and when I tried it, it kind
of took the fight out of me. Prairie Home Companion fans may remember the
commercials from the Ketchup Advisory Board, which tout the ‘natural mellowing
agents’ ketchup contains. If you relate to that, you can see the effect pot had on
me. I don’t recommend this to others – as a teenager, it had a detrimental effect
on my overall motivation. But it made me an easier-going person. I may have
extended that self-medication longer than needed, but have long-since left it
behind.

Leaving fighting behind, along with the increasing numbers of ‘better’ kids who
also smoked cigarettes, enabled me to enlarge my circle of friends. Over time, I
saw less and less of Tommy and the gang. I’ve never seen him as adults. I heard
from old classmates that he has served time in prison, and that a few years ago,
accidentally blew one of his lower legs off with a shotgun he had intended to use
to intimidate somebody into revising the terms of a drug deal he thought should
have gone differently.

When I retired my fists I substituted a sharp wit, and a poison pen. I convinced
myself that I only unleashed these on those who truly had it coming, but that’s
the same easy fiction I told myself when I was fist fighting. I doubt that many
people are changed for the better after verbal humiliation, any more than they
would after being punched. It took me years to realize that this was as
destructive to my heart and soul as fist fighting ever had been. I now try to use my hands
to build useful things around my house, and my words to validate and heal. Old
habits die hard, but I keep my eye on the prize, and am successful more often
than not.

When my daughter Madeleine was in Kindergarten and First Grade, I coached her
soccer team. There was one boy who had a tendency to suddenly act out – either
pushing another player down, or screaming at them. His parents were in the
midst of a divorce, and he wasn’t handling it well at all. Some of the parents
asked me to kick him off the team, but I asked them to give me a little time to see
what I could do. I can’t claim to have turned this boy’s life around—I haven’t
stayed in touch, and don’t know how things have gone for him—but I did spend
some time with him, showed him some respect and love, and helped him practice
impulse control. He would still occasionally get angry, but there were no more
incidents of violence. Part of me feels that I owe the universe something – and
that perhaps helping nurture a troubled boy might be at least something positive.
I can never untip the scales for the actions of my youth … any more than one can
‘unsay’ a cruel comment or ‘unspank’ a child. But I hope that some of the nature I
try to cultivate in my behavior now at least has some healing effect on others I
encounter.