On Getting Punched
February 11, 2023
A normal enough day, a Saturday a few weeks ago. I slept in and took my time moving around getting ready to go to the library.
I was tired, a little slow to my day. I planned to get my coffee at the library and sunk into the fatigue. I couched myself in that slow mood as I thought about what I wanted to write and think about.
Exiting the Metro, I carried the books I needed for reference under my right arm with that hand pocketed. I held the laptop bag strap with my left. Telling a friend this story later on, she said I pretty much just looked like a dork. This is true.
I heard someone furious at the top on the way up the escalator, someone raging. I couldn’t understand him, but his shouts came from a deep and common place. I recalled it as my own sense of injustice and outrage boiled over from seething. Perhaps the word for that is anguish. But this is a big city. I donate as much as I can to help homelessness, and sometimes it’s appropriate to apply the wisdom of “mind your own business.” I kept my attention on my day and ideas ahead.
I made my sharp turn off the escalator toward the library behind and got punched in the head.
If you’re laughing right now, it’s ok. I am, too. Because I mean right in the head. It was absolutely wild.
This fist landed on the back left side of my jaw and neck, and it completely confused me.
The person yelling threw a hard punch right as I turned. A true bookworm, I did not drop my books. I was rubbing my head as this guy moved from my left to my right, trying to square up with me.
I caught a look at his eyes and realized this is nothing I want to be a part of. I pumped the air with the “woah, easy now” open palm still holding my books and giving a nod to show I want nothing here. He jerked forward a little and then ran away.
Someone punched me in the head at the Gallery Place Metro exit and ran away.
A few people saw. They walked on. No questions asked.
And so there I was, suddenly very aware that I was just there, no longer punched but sore and confused. I looked around and just stood there for a little. Do I call the cops? For what? “Hi, a guy just punched me in the head and ran away 10 minutes ago?”
No, no. I need more dignity than that. Instead, I crossed the street and stood in front of the library looking at the spot imagining what it would be like to see a dude punch some other random dude in the back of the head and leave.
I let myself breathe and gave myself space to feel whatever adrenaline and shock was now catching up with me.
How am I to understand this, being punched in the head?
Does this mean anything? Am I an easy target? Do I present as weak or as a push-over? Should I have confronted this person and avenged myself?
If I were a younger version of myself, I would have been ready to take this experience as a sign that I am weak. Maturity is knowing that the absurd can appear at any time, and because it is absurd, it doesn’t have any innate meaning.
I am proud that I did not do anything to retaliate. That isn’t the person I want to be. After all, in a strange way, maybe he needed to do it. I have no idea what he is going through, but I can recall moments in my own life where I felt capable of violence by the basic furry of powerlessness and neglect.
What of this experience of getting punched in the head is true? A voice of compassion spoke then:
“He’s having a worse day than you, Trev.”
I recollected myself, and then wrote this.
More soon,
Trevor
