By Briton Underwood of Punk Rock Papa
Our hands are for good things. Our hands are for kindness. Our hands should never hurt another.
For a time in my life I wore a WWJD bracelet on my wrist. For those not in the know, it stands for What Would Jesus Do. I wholly believed all actions should be put through the What Would Jesus Do rigors before being set in motion.
My first fight, I think I cried harder than the kid I punched in the face. He never hit me back, just sat there on his ass with a bloody nose and a look of complete shock. I was a mess of fear. Jesus wouldn’t punch someone in the face. He would continue to turn the other cheek, even after the strawberries he had spent so many months cultivating were destroyed. He would turn another cheek even after being put in a cardboard box that was then flipped and kicked. Jesus would pray for the boy in the hopes he realized the torment and pain he was causing.
I never understood why that boy hated me. It is usually really easy to hate those who don’t have much of anything in the world.
I was the boy who lived in a dilapidated apartment, even by project housing standards. I lived in the apartment where a utility cord ran from our neighbors’ to us because it had been God knows how long since we had electricity. I was the kid who went smiling and singing the gospel of the good Lord to anyone willing to listen, even though clearly the Lord hadn’t visited our part of town — the part of town where kids played in parking lots covered with broken glass.
“But that’s not what Jesus would do!” My first response when I was told to hit the kid who hated me for no reason other than I existed. Jesus wouldn’t hit him and neither will I. I could make him my friend, I just knew it!
I don’t know what happened that day. The day I decided to step away from what Jesus would do. A reckoning was upon us on the day I decided to step from the path of turning the other cheek and deal out sweet righteousness.
I swung. I connected. I cried.
It felt great.
That moment when my right hand connected with his face will go down as a moment in time that still sends an excited chill up my spine. I took control out of the hands of Our Father and handed out sweet, sweet justice. It was my deliverance.
After crying my way home, eventually I calmed down enough to feel it. The adrenaline that pulsed through my veins. I couldn’t even feel my swollen hand. As we marched over to the boy’s apartment so white trash parents could sort out white trash problems, the adrenaline had me walking on sunshine.
His mom and my mom squabbled back and forth before settling things however grown-ups settle things. I stared down my once oppressor. I stared and smiled as he shrunk in the corner with his wide eyes and toilet-paper-stuffed nose. He no longer wanted to kick the shit out of me as I sat naively in a box. He wanted to run, be anywhere but the room he was in. And why? Because I had punched him in his mouth and taken control. His eyes were wide with fear. Of me.
Our hands are for good things. Our hands are for kindness. Our hands should never hurt another.
That wasn’t the last thrill of violence in my life. I didn’t hang up the gloves and walk away. I didn’t feel guilt when in the third grade I hit Evan in the face with a rock. The thrill existed when I slammed Mike’s head against the floor.
All justified. All justice.
[/nextpage] [nextpage title=”Page 2″ ]I can’t lie. I look back and revel sometimes. A past of fights and brawls where I came out roughed up but not the roughest. There will always be a part of me that holds and yearns for the thrill of settling a dispute with pure savage violence.
That part, the beast that controlled me for most of my life, lies in dormant chains. My broken hands hurt every day. They hurt from punching people or walls or whatever was in front of me when I was angry. I run my tongue over my lips to feel the scars from split lips. The Popcorn Brawl. Split both my upper and lower lip open that night. Scars and stories are what remain of the past.
These hands have inflicted so much fucking pain on the world.
Our hands are for good things. Our hands are for kindness. Our hands should never hurt another.
“No, we don’t hit, son.” I repeat these words to my two-year old. If he only knew how addicting hitting is. If he only knew the family motto: “When in doubt, knock em out.”
I sit there and hold my six-month-old, marveling at how quickly he has grown. I worry he has the beast in him that is only sated with violence.
I sit there with my family, hoping that each day I control the blood lust and erase a little bit of the old family motto.
Our hands are for good things. Our hands are for kindness. Our hands should never hurt another.
I repeat these words, over and over, to my kids.
Our hands are for good things. Our hands are for kindness. Our hands should never hurt another.
I take these words and say them to my sons, in hopes that over time I begin to believe them, too.
Our hands are for good things. Our hands are for kindness. Our hands should never hurt another.
Originally found these words and inspiration in this beautiful essay here. Thank you, Misfit, for inspiring this post.
This post was originally published on Punk Rock Papa.
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About Briton Underwood
Briton Underwood, better known as Punk Rock Papa, is a parent above all else. When he gets sick of being at their beck and call he likes to escape to his page or site. He writes about any and everything he wants, but mainly about his twin boys or his newest addition- another boy. He also would like the world to know he has a beautiful wife, because the couch isn’t that comfy.
Blog- http://punkrockpapa.com
Fb- https://www.facebook.com/PunkRockPapa
Twitter- https://twitter.com/punkrockpapa1