I don’t like violence. I don’t like getting hit, or punched or kicked. I do not like pain – mine or others – that underlies bruises, or torn flesh, broken bones or blood where it’s not supposed to be. My disdain for violence has political underpinnings, or it’s evolved along those lines. It seems to me there are hundreds of better ways than brute force to resolve differences, regardless of whether those differences occur between the thuggiest of street gangs or the world’s most powerful nations. But what I really don’t like about violence is far more personal. I do not like getting beat up. It’s not fun. In nearly every way imaginable, it does not feel good.
I got beat up as a child on the playground, in the locker room and, once, in a field that meandered between two of the major roads in the town where I grew up. I haven’t been to see a therapist about those incidents, so I have no idea if I’m psychologically damaged or can lay claim to post-traumatic stress disorder (I don’t believe I can, nor do I want to) but I do know that my guard goes up when I find myself amidst relatively young men charged up about something bigger than themselves and in no way related to their well being.
In Saint Louis, the years when the Cardinals made it to the playoffs fights erupted throughout the city. And when the Cardinals made it to the World Series, buses – city buses, big ones – were turned over on their sides and set on fire. In Madison, Wisconsin, where I lived for a few years, packs of frat boys would prowl up and down State Street after football games, beating people up. One of the scariest moments of my life was on a train in London. A football match was underway, so the guy who announced the trains decided to use the P.A. system to recite his team’s chants, over and over and over again, each time more menacing than before. For what seemed an eternity – although it couldn’t have been more than 15 minutes – the entire station had the vibe of a stadium about to disintegrate into the chaos of violence. Somehow, the faces all became faceless, the thoughtful elements of them replaced by something automatic and, I thought, deadly.
On Friday morning I was listening to one of the local radio programs. The station was sponsoring a drive to raise money for military families. That’s nice, I thought, not at all sarcastically. If money is being raised to help people in need, I think that’s great. Unfortunately, my mind was changed very quickly, so quickly that I’m wondering if I shouldn’t start letting at least 24 hours pass between the time I see or hear something and the time I form an opinion. The mayor of Vancouver was on, saying that he thought a lot of people talk a good game when it comes to the military, and now that it’s time to make a donation, they need to put their money where their mouths are. Good for him, I thought. I do think there’s a lot of fake support for military people – the flag lapels worn by members of the U.S. Congress, for example. I’d like to see who would actually give money or other forms of support once the ceremonies are over and the news cameras are on to the next spectacle. But then the mayor started talking about the reservists who were answering the phones for the drive, and he said, without any prompting that I heard, “They’re back there, and oh boy, you better not mess with ‘em.”
How in the hell did we go from raising money for families that are having a rough time to “messing with ‘em” in about three seconds? I was truly disgusted by the mayor’s comment, but it left me with more questions than answers. Are young men in groups, especially in uniform, whether athletic or military or business, inherently violent? Or do we expect them to be, and secretly want them to be, as an extension of our own lust for a good fight? Did the mayor inject violence into his bantering because he gets off on it? Or did he just figure that, well, when in Rome. I have no idea, of course, but his comment left me even less inclined to make a donation than I’d already been, which was an accomplishment of sorts.
I got beat up as a child on the playground, in the locker room and, once, in a field that meandered between two of the major roads in the town where I grew up. I haven’t been to see a therapist about those incidents, so I have no idea if I’m psychologically damaged or can lay claim to post-traumatic stress disorder (I don’t believe I can, nor do I want to) but I do know that my guard goes up when I find myself amidst relatively young men charged up about something bigger than themselves and in no way related to their well being.
In Saint Louis, the years when the Cardinals made it to the playoffs fights erupted throughout the city. And when the Cardinals made it to the World Series, buses – city buses, big ones – were turned over on their sides and set on fire. In Madison, Wisconsin, where I lived for a few years, packs of frat boys would prowl up and down State Street after football games, beating people up. One of the scariest moments of my life was on a train in London. A football match was underway, so the guy who announced the trains decided to use the P.A. system to recite his team’s chants, over and over and over again, each time more menacing than before. For what seemed an eternity – although it couldn’t have been more than 15 minutes – the entire station had the vibe of a stadium about to disintegrate into the chaos of violence. Somehow, the faces all became faceless, the thoughtful elements of them replaced by something automatic and, I thought, deadly.
On Friday morning I was listening to one of the local radio programs. The station was sponsoring a drive to raise money for military families. That’s nice, I thought, not at all sarcastically. If money is being raised to help people in need, I think that’s great. Unfortunately, my mind was changed very quickly, so quickly that I’m wondering if I shouldn’t start letting at least 24 hours pass between the time I see or hear something and the time I form an opinion. The mayor of Vancouver was on, saying that he thought a lot of people talk a good game when it comes to the military, and now that it’s time to make a donation, they need to put their money where their mouths are. Good for him, I thought. I do think there’s a lot of fake support for military people – the flag lapels worn by members of the U.S. Congress, for example. I’d like to see who would actually give money or other forms of support once the ceremonies are over and the news cameras are on to the next spectacle. But then the mayor started talking about the reservists who were answering the phones for the drive, and he said, without any prompting that I heard, “They’re back there, and oh boy, you better not mess with ‘em.”
How in the hell did we go from raising money for families that are having a rough time to “messing with ‘em” in about three seconds? I was truly disgusted by the mayor’s comment, but it left me with more questions than answers. Are young men in groups, especially in uniform, whether athletic or military or business, inherently violent? Or do we expect them to be, and secretly want them to be, as an extension of our own lust for a good fight? Did the mayor inject violence into his bantering because he gets off on it? Or did he just figure that, well, when in Rome. I have no idea, of course, but his comment left me even less inclined to make a donation than I’d already been, which was an accomplishment of sorts.
