A Non-Violent Method for Becoming a Better Person
Unresolved anger issues? Sure. Which among us is perfect?
In my last newsletter, I urged you not to judge me for my shenanigans; I was only twenty-four and enjoying the last days of psychotic youth.
I had grown up in rural Queensland, and in a particularly bad era for casual violence. School bullies were everywhere; some of us felt like we were fighting for our lives. Even the teachers would hit us. Corporal Punishment, as it was called, wasn’t banned in Queensland Schools until 1995. So, when I wasn’t dodging my moody father or my unmedicated brother, I was at school where both students and teachers could hit me, whenever they liked, and with legal impunity.
This was perfectly normal at the time. I bounced between thirteen schools, none of them terribly good until my final high school, in Indooroopilly; there, at least, I felt a bit safe. Two of my high schools in Toowoomba were particularly bad; in a just world, I somehow felt, they would have been burned to the ground. At one of those schools, the head master, named Father O’Dempsey, ended up in jail; but not for hitting students.
So, by age twenty-four I suffered from what you might call unresolved anger issues. That’s not, like, a diagnosis or anything; people where I grew up don’t talk to therapists. I mean, I could pay somebody a few hundred dollars and complain at them, or I could buy a seventy-dollar bottle of whiskey and end the evening smacking a fool in the face. Which do you think makes the most economic sense?
Looking back, I can see I was justifiably angry. Nonetheless, I’d met my share of older men who were also angry, and I had no wish to end up like them. I’d have to become a better person, but how? Perhaps, I thought, I should become Buddhist, and do my level best to stop thinking about punching people in the face all the time. And so, I resolved to meditate and become chill, and (hopefully) incredibly relaxed about the obvious fact the world was run by clueless idiots.
By then, I was trying to live differently. My grandfather had died and left me some money, so I immediately traveled to Germany and met my pen-pal, Zoya. And, of course, seeing how chaotic and unruly I was, she started to teach me how to be nice.
It was Zoya, for instance, who explained to me that it was wrong to throw potatoes at Byron whenever I saw him passing by our window and wanted his attention. But you see, nobody had ever taught me how to be nice. Zoya, however, was nice. I liked her, and I liked her friends, and mostly, I wanted to be able to have friends like them.
Now, practically speaking, I was a good person. I never wanted to hurt anybody, really, apart from bullies, or irresponsible pet owners, or those people who take their shoes off and walk around on airplanes. But being nice, and saying nice things? No, that was Zoya. She was kind hearted and pleasant to people, and I could tell that, just by being around her, I was becoming a better person.
Now, as I described in my last newsletter, Zoya’s year of study abroad had come to an end and she’d invited me to stay with her family in rural Indiana. Her family, I discovered, was a matriarchy just like mine back in Australia. Zoya’s mother was some sort of upper-management type who worked for an agricultural company. She was brusque and dour, and seemed to have been born without a sense of humor. She was also clearly racist.
Back then, we thought the Nazis were gone for good. I’d spent a few years living with Sikhs, in Brisbane, and so to actually meet an openly racist person, in America, struck me as more funny than worrisome. And, well, I’m me, remember, so when Zoya’s mother said anything to me, rather than say, “Okay,” I’d reply, in quick succession, “Oh-KKK!”
I did like Zoya’s father, however. He was a soft-spoken man who voted Democrat, and liked to volunteer with Habitat for Humanity. I assumed he’d been roped into marrying Zoya’s mother, after she got her hands on some compromising photos, or something.
No, I definitely didn’t approve of the woman. She also treated Zoya like she was a maid. Every day, Zoya woke up and cleaned the house from top to bottom. She vacuumed floors, washed windows, did the laundry, folded and ironed clothes; this was all expected of her.
Her brother, meanwhile, enjoyed an altogether different lifestyle. Most evenings he spent drinking with friends, or taking drugs. He’d pull up in his pick-up truck around lunchtime the following day, stumble inside and fall asleep in front of the television. Then, he might wake up and ask Zoya to make him a sandwich.
Zoya’s brother was the baby and — in his mother’s eyes, at least — could do no wrong. But Zoya? Zoya was a godless librul with a tattoo.
One day, she and I were eating lunch when Zoya’s brother arrived home, flush-faced and hung-over from the night before. When he saw the kitchen was untidy — again, we were still eating — he started shouting and swearing at Zoya to stop eating, and clean the kitchen immediately.
This was the first time I’d ever seen a man shout and swear at a woman. My father had many faults, but he’d never so much as raised his voice around my mother. I obviously knew some men out there disrespected women, but I’d never seen it in person, and it took me aback.
Remember those unresolved anger issues that I mentioned earlier? Let’s review them, for a moment.
To understand how I felt, I want you to imagine, somehow, that you don’t like a person. I don’t know ... perhaps it’s a politician? Or, an important world leader? It doesn’t matter — it just has to be somebody who exists. Think of them as an irksome, irritating fixture in life who, for some reason or other, simply will not go away! They’re narcissistic, and grandiose, and stupid, and arrogant, and ... also, such a fixture in your life, that some days you feel like you’d trade all the ice cream in the world just for the chance to knock the teeth out of their head.
The problem is, life is never going to give you that chance. You have to walk around, instead, trying your best not to think about them. Nonetheless, several times a day you catch yourself staring off into the middle-distance, thinking about that person’s face — thinking how satisfying it would feel to, somehow, knock the teeth out of their head.
It’s not a wholesome feeling and you know it. You’re not proud to feel it, and it’s bad for the psyche. The best thing to do, obviously, is to move on with your life, and never think about them again. And progressively, that’s what you do. The animosity starts to lessen. It’s still there, but those intrusive thoughts are easing.
Mind you, if there was any justice in the world ... but that’s the point, isn’t it? There isn’t any justice, not really. But wouldn’t it feel so good — wouldn’t it be fair — if, somehow, you could knock the teeth out of their face? But no, no — let’s not wander back into that dark place; it’s better to let go of the anger and animosity. You’re right. You know something? You’re making good progress, here.
Then one day, some drunk idiot walks into a kitchen and starts shouting at a lady — the nicest person you know! — and all you can think, now, is Oh thank goodness, because for a minute there I thought I was going to wind up a Buddhist monk or something.
Now, you’re on your feet, squaring up, and feeling grateful to the universe for sending you this bountiful opportunity. It’s perfect. This nitwit has just volunteered to be your very own, ethically-sourced punching bag.
The sun has come out from behind the clouds. Everything feels warm and fuzzy. Finally, you get to even the score with life.
Zoya’s brother is about my height, though he might be ten or fifteen pounds heavier than me.
“Well,” I tell him, “let’s go outside.”
“Why?” he asks, wide-eyed.
Reader, the one thing you should never try to do is fight anybody in a kitchen. Never do that, unless it’s a matter of absolute life or death. The reason is that in a fight, your judgement will go right out the window. Doesn’t matter how calm and collected you think you are; after one or two hits in the face, you will no longer be your nice, coherent self. So, obviously you will want to ensure that neither you nor he is within easy reach of something sharp and pointy.
“It’s the rules,” I explain. “You insulted a lady, so we go outside, and I knock the teeth out of your head.”
“Bro. I don’t wanna fight you.”
His attitude confuses me, I’ll admit. “I don’t think it matters what you want. You forfeited your rights when you shouted at your sister.”
But much to my surprise, he starts to holler and yell for help — and that help arrives, presently, in the shape of his father.
“What’s going on?” he asks.
“This Australian lunatic wants to beat me up.”
“Well, to be fair,” I clarify, “he came in here and shouted at Zoya and he swore, and ... honestly, I’m surprised we’re still inside, talking about this. There has to be a consequence for him.”
“Dude!” exclaims Zoya’s brother. “I can swear at my sister if I want!”
It’s a very strange situation, in my mind. Zoya is five-foot-two, and a lovely person. She was never going to shout and swear at any man. I mean, I would, but given a choice I might prefer to hit him, instead.
“Sure,” I agree. “You’re allowed to swear at your sister, just as I’m allowed to retaliate on her behalf.” I am now looking at his father. “Why does this kid think I’m not allowed to stand up for his sister?”
Zoya’s brother looks at her father incredulously. “You can’t let him come into this house and threaten to beat me up! This isn’t right!”
Her father looks at Zoya for a long moment, looks at me, then nods his head. And then, without so much as a backwards glance at his son, exits the room.
“Sorted,” I say, conversationally. “So, let’s go outside, shall we?”
Her brother is looking confused and scared. Which makes this much less fun, I will admit. But then, what was he even thinking, coming in here and shouting at a woman like that? What did he think was going to happen?
It dawns on me, now, that he’s never actually been in a fight before. All this confidence and bluster of his is artificial.
Huh.
I am troubled. He had treated his sister as his inferior. Had nobody ever called him out on it, before now? And if not, why had it fallen to me to remedy his behavior? Perhaps, this isn’t so serious, after all? Maybe he’s just a bonehead, and I didn’t need to take him seriously. The problem is I don’t know if I’m overreacting. I knew I enjoyed fighting quite a lot, just as I knew I shouldn’t, and fights are, in all honesty, very ugly in real life. And even if Zoya and her father are on my side, neither might fully understand what is about to happen.
What I absolutely know is that I’m standing in a house in the Midwest, threatening to knock the teeth out of my friend’s alcoholic brother. They are — Zoya and her father, at least — nice people. And as for me, I know I’m not behaving nicely. I am, simply and gladly, conforming to my childhood and my high school years.
I think I am righteous. I see myself allied with women against the patriarchy. But deep down, I also know I am acting precisely like the violent lunatics with whom I’d grown up in Queensland. And furthermore, my friend Zoya, who is nice, is being taken along for the ride.
And so, I do something out of character; I back down, and I walk away.
Later that day, her brother comes to me and apologizes and says he respects me for the way I stood up for his sister. I nod and say nothing. Nobody in Zoya’s family seems to have treated her with much respect, and so their approval meant little to me.
A few days later, Zoya’s mother calls a family meeting. To my surprise, I am expected to attend. We sit around a kitchen table, and her mother says:
“I’m not prepared to give my blessing to your relationship with my daughter.”
I laugh. Who are these people? Do they think they’re living in a castle?
“I can live without your approval,” I say. “We’re adults. We don’t need your blessing. We can more or less do whatever we want.”
Then Zoya says, “And what we want to do is run away to Australia and start a kangaroo farm!”
I give a start. Her mother bursts into tears. Her father becomes grim and stony-faced. But I have to bite my lip, because that would be like someone saying they want to run away to America, and start farming chipmunks.
And now, I am wrong about something else. I don’t know it yet, but Zoya’s world and mine are surprisingly different. In that era, a young Australian like myself could attend university without needing financial assistance from their parents. I had left home seven years earlier, when I was seventeen. I thought everyone was like this.
Zoya had one year of her studies remaining, and wanted me to come stay with her when she was at college. Meanwhile, her mother was cutting off much of Zoya’s financial support through that final year. She seemed to think I should support Zoya. Obviously, I couldn’t work in the United States. But if we got married ... but do you see how kooky this all seemed, to me? Her mother couldn’t stand the sight of me, so I couldn’t quite grasp her motivations.
But I didn’t understand many of these details until much, much later. Again, I didn’t know American college students were financially dependent on their parents. I assumed it was a free country, and I assumed my friend was free to make her own decisions, but that’s not always how things work.
For Zoya to complete her final year of college, she would have to work a full-time job. And that, of course, is what she did. She worked forty hours a week in a library, and you know what else? By the end of that year, she won a Fulbright Scholarship.
Still, looking back, I didn’t feel too impressed with my role in all of this. If I’d been a little more charming around her mother, Zoya’s final year in college might have been a bit easier. But this is how we live, as humans; much of what we need to know now, in the present, will only be understood later, in retrospect.
Over the years, Zoya’s mother changed somewhat. Her Rush Limbaugh era came to an end. For a few years, she was an enthusiastic Trump supporter and talked endlessly about the woke agenda and liberal tears. Then one day, she became a bit fed up with it all, and started sending Zoya quotes by Elizabeth Warren and Bernie Sanders. People are complicated. Anyway, she’s not as mean-spirited, at least. If you want to know what I think, it’s that nice people — people like Zoya — gradually make the people around them want to be better.
Oh, and Zoya’s brother? I’m being totally serious with you — he sobered up, went to business school and became the CEO of a company in Europe. Last I heard, he was running some sort of crypto company. So, not everybody gets a redemption arc, I suppose.
As for Zoya, she is my daughters' favorite aunt; they both talk to her at least a few hours a week. But this all lies in the future of this story. Back then, of course, we didn't know what was about to happen. You see, in the autumn of that year, Zoya and I packed up her car and drove out to that little college town in rural Pennsylvania, and there we found ourselves living in what was, apparently, an extremely haunted apartment. And you know something? I first mentioned that bloody apartment about four newsletters ago, and have spent the past three trying to explain how we ended up there! Well, no matter — I’m doing my best, that’s the main thing. And, somehow, I think we’ll get there eventually.
My next newsletter is already written, and I’ll send it on Monday. Thanks for being here. Yours with (obviously) chaste affection,
Kris St. Gabriel