I have a memory from when I was about six years old. It may be distorted with the years, but it goes something like this: I’m at summer camp and a group of kids is mocking me ruthlessly. At some point I’ve had enough. I wait for them to lose interest, and when they do, I walk up to their leader from behind. As I must have seen in a movie or on TV, I tap him on the shoulder, stand poised as he turns around, and punch him in the face.
This is where the similarities to the movies end. I expect my nemesis to go down – knocked out cold. His comrades should flee in fear of my power. There should be cheering, but I get none of that.
Instead, he kicks me in the shin, and we begin wrestling until a camp counsellor rushes over to separate us. I have no recollection of what happens next, or how the rest of the week goes. The end of the story is fitting because, unlike in the movies, there aren’t any clean, satisfying endings to most violent clashes. The one thing I do recall clearly is that I didn’t feel any better. I had a lingering sense that things weren’t right, and that my actions hadn’t helped to make them so.
