Recent Events Bring Back a Violent Memory

The Sagon Penn trial here and the Bernhard Goetz decision in New York have led to a lot of discussion about violence among those not usually violent. For me, this has brought back a memory and the thought that no matter how much we may claim to hate violence, it’s there, probably lurking in the heart of the most peaceful of us self-proclaimed doves.

I don’t take pride in this incident, but it’s a fair illustration of the point.

My daughter and I had been walking her dog along the beach and had just started onto a side street. Suddenly, a car pulled up to the curb near us, and five sailors piled out, all obviously in high spirits. One of them noticed the dog.

“What a cute little doggie!” he crowed. With that, he picked the pup up by both ears, grinning, and said: “What I couldn’t do with you and a shotgun!”

Next thing I knew, I heard a noise as though a baseball bat had hit a coconut. The Dog Molester was now lying out in the middle of the street, clutching his head.

It wasn’t bravery. It was rage and as automatic as the blink of an eye. I had drawn back and hit this man on the side of the head as hard as I could with the heel of my hand.

He wasn’t one bit more astonished than I was. I can still hear my daughter’s horrified gasp: “Mom!”

“Hey, I’m sorry!” I walked apologetically toward my victim. By then he had straightened up and stood staring at me with stricken eyes.

I tried to explain, “The dog just went to the vet for treatment on her ears.”

He backed away, holding up a hand to fend me off. “You keep away from me! Just stay away!”

It seemed there was nothing to do but walk on. As we left, he reproached me, “I thought you were a mature lady!”

While I refuse to be addressed as a senior citizen, I definitely am of vintage age. By then I had calmed down some, and I drawled, “Well, I guess we’re all still growing up, one way or another, aren’t we?”

That I was barefoot, wearing jeans and a ski jacket that was red and silver and had faint biker overtones probably didn’t enhance my image. As my daughter and I rounded the corner, the men in the group were still pointing our way and jabbering at one another.

The fact that Dog Molester had a good clout on the side of the head coming to him is neither here nor there. What hurt was to find that it was so easy and so automatic for dear, sweet, chicken-hearted, peace-loving little old me to do such a thing.

Later, I heard it suggested that maybe the capability for that kind of rage and instant reaction is a good thing, perhaps necessary for survival sometimes.

Nevertheless, I was definitely chagrined to find that, along with my intense dismay at how thin my veneer of civilization really is, I had this sneaky little corner of me that was rather more pleased with myself than I wanted to acknowledge.

My daughter still refers to it as “the time Mom punched out the sailor.”

I didn’t sleep a wink the whole night. My hand hurt too much.