Member-only story
How a Lost Fist Fight Won My Self-Respect
When racist thugs confront me, I always stand my ground
I’ve been lucky. For most of my life, I’ve taken a stand, called out cheats, and maintained a strong sense of justice. I can’t stand back and watch people get mistreated when some bigot decides to have a go.
So far, it’s yet to lead to any serious trouble.
That doesn’t mean I’m a brave person. I don’t go out of my way looking for injustice; I’m just stubborn enough not to back away.
I’ve had my fair share of shoving matches. You know the ones—a couple of stags bucking with each other while the group holds the angrier one back. I’ve had verbal abuse screamed in my face from some very unlikeable characters. I’ve stood my ground (mostly because I was too shit scared to move) when the hatred was in full flow. I’ve been mugged for simply refusing to cave in, dumb enough not to hand over my possessions. I’ve been attacked on a school bus only because I was wearing the wrong uniform, easily identified for my religion.
But my “one punch” fight happened in college.
No university accepted me with my grades. I had flunked most of my exams (except art) and had few options regarding what I could do or where I could study. With a threatened bleak future already, I turned to a local community college and enrolled in a foundation class.
I was a fish out of water there.
It was quickly apparent who was in control — I easily spotted the alpha males to avoid. The rising stars of thuggery eagerly demonstrated their self-worth with their fists.
I’ve been mugged for simply refusing to cave in, dumb enough not to hand over my possessions. I’ve been attacked on a school bus only because I was wearing the wrong uniform, easily identified for my religion.
I struggled to speak their language and I wasn’t adapting to my new environment. I entered college with no friends; everyone else was connected because they grew up in the local area and attended the same schools. I was the odd one out.
