Fighting Myself Over Hitting Back

Crossing paths with a childhood bully

I was never a child with the gall to get scrappy. Rather than shoving or punching back my high school bullies, I would quote Dostoyevsky and Marx to their faces, much to my physical pain.

The summer before starting college at a New York City university, I chose to defend myself more physically. Using the boxing gloves from father’s college fighting days, I began a rigorous workout routine. After all, I concluded, why get highbrow when landing left jabs would suffice?

I imagined the respect fellow New Yorkers would give me for protecting my — and their — ground. And I dreamed of how impressed my high school classmates would be at our reunion: We would all be at a seaside ballroom. With a breathtaking woman by my side, I would wear a bow tie, eat caviar and drink wine, ready to stupefy old tormentors with the same hits and disses they gave me. This skill would likely require years of getting brawny. But I figured there was time to prepare.

Just as I began college later that summer, my plan faced trouble. I was strolling through Washington Square Park, convinced I left my suburban troubles, when one of my former bullies appeared. Even recalling his name left me feeling fragile. I clenched my teeth, hoping this guy — his quarterback build sporting a form-fitting polo — would pass me by.

“Harrison?” he asked, turning right, then left. “Is that you?”

Memories of years prior rekindled. When he smacked my behind with a towel in the locker room, when he told my uninterested science lab partner about my crush on her, when he stole two of my pencils during a test and darted them onto the ceiling — it all returned.

At its worst, bullying and other forms of aggression leave children — or anyone, for that matter — feeling guilty for the insecurities they hold. Questions may linger about its roots, possible growth and impact on both suicides and homicides. But few can deny the hostile memories it creates.

“Great times at school, weren’t they?” my former bully added. I wondered if he was kidding.

I tried reaching for a handshake, but my fist was clutching my wallet so closely that it got caught in my pocket. After a few seconds, my arm eased, and we shook hands. Then he slapped my back and told me he was also attending college nearby. I began calculating the best time to punch him.

But unwilling to make a scene, I restrained the way he never had. And instead of firing a kick, punch or glare, I asked if he was free for coffee.

“Coffee? That stuff tastes like shit,” he said. Then he opened his arms. “Is tea alright?”

I agreed.

What had I done? I thought my kind words would chase him away. Instead, my plan left us sharing a booth at Washington Square Diner.

Once the small talk — bits about our studies and career aspirations — ended, we fidgeted in our seats, peered out the window, checked our phones and sipped from our tea cups. A discomfort with silence lent us common ground.

“You were always so determined,” he said abruptly. “Glad that hasn’t changed.”

I thought of mentioning the torment he caused me all those years ago. But his tone gave a similar concern that his actions were wrong. That alone delivered enough solace.

Soon our conversation grew. We confessed insecurities about rising student loans, fledgling romances and fears of becoming cynical. We discussed what we should have done differently in high school. We gave the same answer: be friendlier to classmates.

He excused himself to make a phone call outside. Minutes later, he returned with a box of fresh Dixon Ticonderogas — presumably purchased at the nearby Staples — and handed it to me.

“I won’t steal them from you this time,” he said.

Matt’s name suddenly stopped irking me. After finishing our tea, we headed to the subway, where we would split off.

“I’ve got an early day tomorrow,” he said. “Going to Fenway to catch the Red Sox game.”

“Are you a Sox fan?” I asked.

“Yeah, not sure why,” he said. “Guess I’ve just always admired how much they hate the Yankees.”

I didn’t tell him about my lifelong love for the Yankees. I decided we would hash that out another day.

Harrison Golden is a New York-based journalist. He tweets @harrisongolden.