I was challenged to a fight the other day.

Walking to my car in a Berkeley parking lot, I felt before I saw that familiar, menacing approach. The New York City still in me looked around and past the rapidly closing figure before I could even perceive the threat directly. That urban lizard brainstem which I have long struggled to exceed surfaced, instantly and instinctively. It sought first the confirmation that this was indeed a solitary ambuscade and, with gritty autopilot satisfied, trained my eyes on the target just in time for it to emphatically flip me off. I heard him growl, “Stop being a faggot. Imma fuck you up, you fucking faggot.” I had never seen this guy before in my life and had done nothing to provoke him or anyone that day. His statement was as random as it was ridiculous.

I know there is nothing at all wrong with being gay, but I’m not and, even if I were, he couldn’t have known either way. It wasn’t about some perceived sexuality. This man (black jacket, brown pants, eyes redder than the curb-worn Pumas speeding him forward) was merely hurling the worst epithet in his mind in order to provoke me. I almost smiled because it was just so silly. I shot him a bird of my own in return instead and made for my car’s waiting safety. This dismissal made him somehow angrier and I knew what would come next: lizard brain engage.

The experience is far from new. I grew up on the Lower East Side when it was still a frontier. Yes, I was and remain distinctly nerdy, but by no means weak. With twenty years of training, I hold a black belt in Judo and in my parents’ house remains a roomful of trophies reminding the world that I once truly enjoyed fighting, on and off the mat. I’ve been in my share of street scraps, with scars both physical and psychological to prove it. Fighting was one of the more direct avenues to my father’s respect.

If I ever backed down from a conflict and he found out, I would have to face him next. There was no one on the street scarier than he, so it was usually no decision, really. Yet, I backed down that day. I climbed automatically into my car and attempted to flee. My aggressor even jumped almost onto the hood, middle finger still flying, challenging me to get out and throw blows. Where I once thought only of “face” and “rep” and “street cred,” my prevailing thought in that second was only of my daughter.

I was supposed to be on my way to pick her up from a violin lesson and, if I got hurt or worse, there would be no one to get her. I was scared for my own safety, no doubt. This, I can readily admit. Yet, I have been afraid in this exact way many, many times before and the reptilian response has always been fight rather than flight. This time, however, the ever-lurking lizard hissed loudly and clearly, “Run.” Don’t risk the life I have fought so hard to attain.

Father. Husband. Homeowner. All of it danced before me in an instant as my blood boiled. Seemingly all of a sudden, I have things greater than myself, even if it means losing my “manhood” to keep them. If I say that being physically tough is part of my definition of that manhood construct, I will likely be seen as asserting here a male privilege near the root of so many of society’s ills. Still, if you follow this space with any regularity, you already know I’m a loving person who cooks, cleans, and is the primary caregiver for a great little girl.

I’m an educator, guiding young people in academic, intellectual, and social growth. I may be a shitty husband, but I try to be a good man. Valid and valuable, I don’t have a goddamn thing to prove. The gecko in my cerebellum chirped a new song that day, reminding me that I didn’t have anything to prove in that parking lot, either. All I wanted to do was be on time to pick up my kid. For the first time, I actually have things to lose and I wasn’t going to let this asshole take any of them away from me.

He might have had a gun. He certainly looked ready to end my life. Worse, what if I had beaten him down? To stop his obviously manic rage, I might have had to kill him. Then, I’m the one bound for prison. If I tapped too heavily my own deep well of anger and snapped this fucker’s neck, who knows what a jury would see as self-defense? Did I mention that I’m Black? Forgive me if that means I have only fleeting faith in our justice system.

All of this ran through my head as frantic, fractured imagery in the span of milliseconds. All I wanted to do was get home; but, so much inside me still says fight. Fight, motherfucker! I know pain. I’m not one bit afraid of lost teeth or broken bones. I’m no teenager, but I’m not feeble. This thing challenged my core being, directly and distinctly. It wasn’t mere puffery or false bravado. This shit was life and death, 7th Street and Avenue D style. Yet, without a second thought, I had backed down. Roundly cursing myself through hot tears, I drove away as fast as I could. Despite knowing I did the right thing, I still feel like a coward.

And today, for me, that’s what it feels like to be a man.