Fighting

Is not the answer. Opt for creativity.

In my late teens, early twenties, I spent a lot of time getting into physical altercations with men. I think my experiences as a young woman had by that time caught up with me and I was now ready to start using my fists. I was over it. I couldn’t take much more of the sexual harassment or being spit on in bars for dancing. The first time it happened in public I was dancing and a guy started to make fun of me and then yelled in my face, “Hillary Clinton sucks.” This was the early 90s and I guess he thought Hillary Clinton would resonate with what he saw as my feminist ways, shaved head and again dancing. I couldn’t take anymore and I began pounding the guy in the face, rapid fire with my fists. A friend had to drag me away. I can remember the guy holding up his arms to defend himself. Not such a tough guy now are you I thought? Besides what kind of dude picks on women?

I grew up with four brothers and fighting seemed as natural as waking up in the morning. We play fought, delivering punches and or had wrestling matches on the red shag rug that covered our threadbare carpet. I ran hard, I played hard and I felt like I had the ability to defend myself with my long skinny, muscle-less arms. I had the mind of a boy and the body of a girl.

The first time I punched a guy who was not my brother, was because I was curious what it would feel like to hit someone in the face. I was getting drunk on Old Milwaukee with my best friend, her heavy metal boyfriend and my boyfriend in a small apartment with absolutely no furniture. It makes me wonder if the house was actually rented to someone or one of us had found keys and thought it would be a good place to get hammered. My boyfriend, who was five inches shorter than I was, I’m 5’10, got up to go to the bathroom and I thought it would be funny to hide behind the door and then clock him when he came out. I did and he fell to the floor. I felt immediate regret. I could have killed him. It’s probably good he was drunk.

The feeling that I could hit a man and make him fall seemed to stay with me though. I’d had too many bad experiences with them, including one incident with a car-full of guys brandishing baseball bats who sped after my friend and I screaming at us to pull over. I assume so they could bash our brains in. We managed to escape.

I guess I was looking for a way to defend myself and fighting back seemed to surprise men. They wanted me to argue, but I’ve always been bad at that. I’m slow in an argument. I think of what I wanted to say after the fact. My temper however had a mind of its own and was prepared to blow.

While living in Chicago I had an encounter with a man while waiting for the El train. I could see him staring at me from the other side of the tracks, pacing back and forth, sweating, tugging at his neckline and getting worked up. Great, I groaned. The guy was short and stocky with greasy black hair and horn rimmed glasses. He seemed like your typical nerdy perv and I could see why they often cast men in movies who looked like this man. Suddenly he was standing before me, breathless from running down one flight of stairs and up another in attempt to catch me before my train arrived. I saw him walking toward me and tried to turn away.

“Uh,” he gurgled out, touching a handkerchief to his forehead. “did you go to Jefferson High school?”

No I said.

“Uh, uh, you have really nice legs,” he said and then tried to run away as fast as his waddle would take him.

I’d had enough and this guy was the guy who was going to take it for all of the crude comments I had received in my life including the guy who pulled up beside me when I was just twelve to show me his throbbing penis. Holding it like a championship trophy and polishing it to a golden gleam.

I ran to catch up with the man, cocked my fist back and let it fly forward, missing him as he ducked. He proceeded to run to the staircase, in a rush to escape a mad woman. I caught him and began kicking him down the stairs.

“Don’t ever talk like that to a woman ever again,” I screamed.

I probably succeeded in doing nothing more than giving this guy a lifelong incident he could replay over and over for the rest of his life as he beat off, but it felt good to kick him and see the fear in his eyes. Men don’t’ think you’re going to fight back and certainly not with your fists. Still I wouldn’t condone it. The high doesn’t last as long as you might think.

Oh yeah and I forgot about the guy in high school who wouldn’t stop punching me in the arm. I guess it was because he had a crush on me and wanted me to remember it by leaving a black and blue mark on my bicep. I finally retaliated, swung my arm straight back and let him have it right in the cheek. He was the star quarterback and word traveled fast.

“Ali,” I heard a kid scream as I walked down the hall. Some girls felt bad for him. I did not.

I fought so much that I began to be known for fighting. It’s deep to want to fight. That’s a reaction to trauma that has been worming its way through your mind for much of your life and needs to be freed.

Once again, violence is not the answer and I stopped fighting almost as quickly as I started. I was afraid I’d hit the wrong dude and he’d put his hands around my neck and wring it like a chicken. I’d die with my tongue hanging out of my mouth in the back of bar that hosted bands that played heavy metal covers. A stage proliferated by singers in Ren and Stimpy tank tops and thin K-mart bike shorts. I was not going out like that.

The last time I punched a guy was at a bar here in New York. I was with a friend and this dude kept hovering over her trying to kiss her. She tried multiple times to push him away, but he just kept wagging his drippy tongue in her face.

“Leave her alone,” I warned. I felt like I need to help her.

“What are you going to do about it,” he skulked. His face now in mine. Then he pretended to spit in my face. How very English of him, I thought, his accent still ringing in my ears.

At this time I had not fought in years and I made it a point to warn myself to never do it again. But then suddenly I found myself up on my feet, cocking my fist back and letting it fly directly into this man’s face. I sat down immediately after, taken aback by my sudden outburst. Then I got up and went to the bathroom to hide. I sat on the toilet scolding myself for being so brazen. You told yourself you would never do that again, I repeated. Then I got up and walked back into the bar.

“Christiane,” a friend called, the manager wants to talk to you. I held my breath. I knew I’d be 86’d for life but instead the manager shook my hand and said “thank you so much. Free drinks for everyone!”

Turns out the guy was a pestilence and here I was worried I’d lost my right to ever enter again for socking him in the face. Why they had not kicked him out a long time ago is another story.

The End.