Violence is fun*

My thoughts exactly.

We’ve seen too much of violence already in the past twelve months, and there’s potentially even more to come. The Navy Seals / Viking raider cosplayers that waved the flag of slavery, secession, and treason in the Capitol are eager to repeat the act at government buildings around the country - but at least someone has finally started paying attention.

While the rest of us wait to see if there will be an effective response from the government, I wanted to explore the role of violence in my own life - inspired not just by current events, but also by an impulsive action of mine while moving my garbage bin back into position. Rather than use the wheels, I lifted it up and slammed it back down. It was easily the most aggressive physical movement I’ve made since the start of the pandemic, which cut off my access to things like punching bags. It felt surprisingly satisfying.

I regularly had violence used against me by other children as a kid. There were a bunch of incidents that I no longer remember in detail, simply because they weren’t all that sinister, but a couple were more memorable. There was a group of loud, obnoxious boys who picked on me constantly at my first school after we moved to California, who restrained my arms and stole a cupcake out of my hand in the classroom. At another school in the next town over, a short, skinny boy - easily shorter than me by a head and a half - punched me in the face and knocked off my glasses. Fortunately, by the time of this second memory, I finally had a group of friends, one of whom immediately retrieved the glasses for me. At no time did I actually try to get back at these kids with violence of my own, though I certainly wanted to. My parents made it clear that this would not be acceptable, and anyway, there was little danger of being really damaged by kids that age. However, it was at about this time that I received the first rudiments of training in violence.

One of the professors at my mom’s college had heard something about my situation and seemed outraged on my behalf. He offered a few lessons on how to throw a punch without injuring myself, and I vividly remember sitting in on a class where he used film of Muhammad Ali taking a punch from Joe Frazier to illustrate the serape effect’s devastating potential. It was the first time I was given a physical outlet for the incredible frustration of simply accepting the verbal and physical cruelty of other children, and it was fantastic. Even without being allowed to use this elementary training, it gave me a greater sense of self-determination.

Since that time, every time I’ve dabbled in a form of physical activity that derives from combat, I’ve noticed a little extra edge that is enjoyable - the knowledge that this activity would be dangerous if done in anger and at full speed (or, in the case of football, unarmored). It’s instructive as well - even simulated violence, with rules, teaches you something about your own capabilities. On one occasion I sparred a bit with a much smaller, quicker guy, in a drill involving fish-shaped plastic implements meant to simulate knife fighting. I expected to have the advantage due to size and reach - and certainly I “killed” him many more times than he got to a vital spot on me - but it very effectively disabused me of any fantastic ideas about tangling with a live edge. I still enjoy the chance to test my strength and capabilities, though usually with weights rather than weapons.

I’m not someone who thinks that violence is never necessary, so the recent exposure of just how widespread the white-supremacy problem is within our armed forces and police has really forced some difficult thinking for me about what kind of policy to advocate for. I grew up proud to know that my grandfather had fought in the deadliest conflict in human history in order to protect the values of democracy and freedom from the destructive combination of weaponized divinity, nationalism, and fascism. I found myself ashamed to see the complete lack of judgment that led to the failures of Jan 6th, and am darkly amused that some of the proposed remedies include additional anti-terrorism laws and surveillance. The insurrectionists on the right don’t have to conceal their plans; they put them on Parler and Gab and other filth-pits where anyone could see them. The failure is not one that can be fixed with new technologies or new laws. We need an entirely new group of people leading these organizations, one with the will to eliminate racist treachery from the inside out. We also need to get over the idea, which I’ve seen expressed more than once, that the way to “come together” or achieve “unity” is to avoid provoking those who regret missing out on the treasons committed on Jan. 6. Some have even written that we shouldn’t try to disarm these violent extremists because it would validate their fears about gun control. These concerns are foolish. We cannot cede initiative to these groups, wondering whether their internet boasts will lead to actual violence, when we could be exposing them, shaming them, and ultimately disarming them before they decide to act.

There’s a final anecdote I have to share that informs my perspective on violence, especially when bullies are involved. When I reentered Apple Valley High School, I knew no one. My family had just been recently and radically altered, and I had no money to join in on classmates’ usual recreational activities. This left me unprepared on many levels to cope with the constant comments from one of my classmates: "F****t.” Over and over again, every day of gym class. When I had absolutely reached my limit, I grabbed him after we had come in from cross-country skiing and shoved him against a row of lockers, holding him there with my forearm across his throat. “Don’t ever call me that again,” I told him. He responded by threatening me with an after-school beating involving him and his friends, but I kept that appointment - afraid the whole time - and he never showed. He also never insulted me again.

The guiding philosophy of today’s mainstream Republican party shows all the sophistication of my adolescent antagonist, and is equally contemptuous of its opposition’s request to be treated with respect. One of the conclusions of Aleksandar Heman’s portentous essay on fascism is this:

The idea that we’re all in this together and that we must keep talking is dangerous, just as my commitment to friendship was, because we might find ourselves wasting time and anger on a fundamentally unbalanced dialogue, where one side is armed with ideas, and the other is armed with weapons.

Like that idiot high-schooler, today’s Republican party can’t be reasoned with. Its lies have to be choked off and its political power destroyed. I can only hope that my occasional experimentation with violence remains recreational.