Last night I was sitting on the couch when Max burst in through the door like Cosmo Kramer. It took a moment or two to realize that he was crying. Matter of fact, he was so focused on trying not to cry that he could hardly catch his breath. I think he was torn between his tears and his young machismo, wanting comfort but not wanting to look weak. There were no broken bones or blood, so I knew it was more about feelings than physical hurt.
“Johnny [not his real name] twisted my arm and pushed me down,” he said, choking back his emotion.
Now, I know Johnny personally. I talk to him at the bus stop several times a week. He’s a good kid, and he comes from a great family. He’s two years older than Max, but he is an unlikely bully.
“Tell me what happened,” I said.
But Max just kept repeating that Johnny had twisted his arm and pushed him down.
“That’s not like Johnny,” I said. “Why do you think he would be such a jerk?”
Max just kept crying.
When I was a boy, the conventional wisdom required fathers to make their sons tough. I remember one of my friends running home after getting beat up by a neighbor kid. He ran into his house, but his dad kicked him back outside, told him to go back and fight, then locked the door. The tenor of the times abhorred weakness and cherished machismo. It didn't matter that the toughness was often repressed fear and that the weakness was often discretion.
I remember my own dad in our basement with boxing gloves on, teaching my brother how to fight. My brother had been called out by some other boy (presumable not at high noon). My dad was trying to help the way he knew best.
And there is something to be said for teaching a boy to fight. Take the toy guns and toy swords out of his toy box and a boy will pick up a stick and pretend it's a play weapon. One of my teachers used to say that teaching a boy to be totally passive is tantamount to lying to him. We still send young men off to fight in wars (young women now, too). Play fighting prepares boys to face the world. It is cruelty to attempt social engineering by lying to the boys. The world has always been a violent place.
The wisest words I ever heard about this subject came from one of the toughest men I’ve ever met. His name is John T. John grew up having to fight to survive, and he got good at it. Friends, neighbors, the police; everybody knew you didn’t mess with John. He got into gangs and spent time in practically every Minnesota penal institution there is. He found God, and now he’s a preacher. He spends his time helping troubled young men to straighten out.
“A boy’s supposed to run home crying,” John advised. “He’s supposed to run home to his parents. And his father should tend to him. Without a father a boy is vulnerable. It’s the father who keeps the wolves away.”
John never advised specifically about when a boy should be taught to fight. But, if I asked him about Max v. Johnny, I think he would have told me to hug Max and tell him everything's okay. Johnny is bigger than Max. There would be nothing gained by sending my son back to get his clock cleaned.
So I decided to simply hold my crying boy, making sure that he knows -- whether he wants to fight or to run -- his dad thinks he’s the greatest. He will never have to prove anything to me. The day will come when he has to stand and fight. We'll cross that bridge together if and when we come to it.
It took him a couple days to nurse his ego back. He’s still mad at Johnny.
(About an hour after Max, Cici came running in. She told the rest of the story. Apparently, Max was goofing around, kicking Johnny. Johnny probably overreacted and was too rough in his response. Max’s feelings were hurt because someone he looks up to clobbered him. But when it was all said and done, Max started it. We had a long talk about disingenuous story telling.)
copiwrite B. A. F.
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