14 Nov 2017 Hanging In Mid-Air
Me on the left
The Boy with the Bleeding Nose
I punched the little boy in the face a little harder than I intended to. He lost his balance and fell on his back, and to my horror, I saw that he was bleeding profusely from his nose. I did not know what to do so I just stood by with the others, looking at him. A minute later, once he registered the pain and noticed the blood streaming from his nose, he started sobbing. Finally, he got up, turned his back to us, and ran home to his apartment building across the street.
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New Year’s Reflections
Over the holidays, as I was contemplating the continuation of my series of newsletters featuring boyhood stories, I wondered how these real-life events influenced who I turned out to be later in life.
Have you ever wondered how the events of your early life influenced you?
I also wondered about the lessons I can still learn from these events, even as I am entering the senior stages of my life.
So at the end of each of my stories, I will share some of these reflections and lessons with you. As always, I appreciate your thoughts and feedback, either as comments on my blog or as direct emails.
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Hanging in Mid-Air
That summer morning I met with my childhood friends in the garden of our apartment building. It was a lush garden with many trees to climb, fruits to pick, bushes to hide in, and many entertainment opportunities. But that morning, my best friend, also named Uri, suggested that we venture up the street to play with the kids who lived there. I did not know these kids, but I got excited by the opportunity to meet them and play with them.
The beginning of our adventure with the new boys went very well. We played new games and chased each other around. Our screams of joy rattled the neighborhood. Things started to go wrong when a new boy joined our group. He was about my age (six or seven years old), average height and a bit plump. He was also very domineering and wanted to take over. He did not like the game we were playing and wanted to force us to play his game.
Even in those early days of my life, I was a flexible person who went along with most of what was taking place around me – but up to a point. And that domineering six-year-old was about to cross my red line.
Before I knew it, a heated argument had developed with that boy and at some point, he made a derogatory comment about my mother. That was the point where I could no longer control my emotions and I send my fist flying into his face.
After he disappeared, bleeding and sobbing into his apartment building, we continued playing our game and I tried to calm down from my violent experience. But a few minutes later the boy emerged from the building with his father at his side. The father was a big man with a menacing look. He approached me with fast steps and it was clear that he was very angry and determined to avenge the humiliation that his son suffered at my hand.
“What did you do to my son?” he asked. And before I had a chance to explain what had transpired, he grabbed my ears and lifted me off the ground. As I hung there in mid-air he shouted abuses at me and told me to never come to this part of the street again. My mid-air experience probably lasted only 30 seconds or so, but to me, it felt like an eternity. Finally, he put me down, took his son by the hand, and started walking back towards his apartment building.
I felt horrible. My ears were burning and I felt humiliated in front of my friends. And before I had a chance to think about what had just happened, I bent down, picked a stone off the ground and threw it in the direction of the father and his son. Luckily the stone did not hit them, but they did turn around as they saw the stone flying past them. The father made a gesture as if he was going to run after me but I was already running away at full speed towards my home.
As I got to the garden of our building, I went to hide in my hiding place. I knew that I had to calm down and think about what I was going to say to my parents. After about 20 minutes of calming down and analyzing the situation logically, I decided not to tell my parents about what had happened for three reasons. First I did not want my mother to hear the derogatory words that the boy used towards her. Second, I did not want to share my humiliation with my parents. Third I wanted to avoid the “lecture” which I knew my father will feel compelled to give me.
For the rest of my childhood years, I never went to play with the children at the end of our street, even when it meant that I had to play by myself with no friends around me.
My lesson learned
I was not an aggressive boy and I rarely got into fights during my childhood years. But the incident with the boy at the end of the street taught me that I do have certain red lines and that when they are crossed I will fight for what I believe is right.
As I progressed through my life I sought to define the red lines that I would defend. What I realized was that my red lines had less to do with me and more to do with people who are close to me: my wife, my daughters, the rest of my family, and my close friends. I realized that when they are “under attack” I will always step forward in their defense.
I also learned what it feels like to be humiliated in front of my friends, how burning that feeling was, and how strong was my urge to regain my pride and the respect of my friends. As I grew older I found other ways to regain the respect of the people close to me, not by throwing stones at my offenders, but by taking other actions that would restore their respect.
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