the first man to call me mean was my father who muttered the accusation into his broccoli before then, satisfied with the sound of the words, loudly declared them to the table at large
and his words struck me deeply because i had already softened the story that had earned this verdict, wrapped cotton around the reality of my fists and slashed all the swear words out of the script before telling my family about the theater and the boy and the darkness from earlier that day
"I-- he wasn't allowed to do that," i stuttered.
and my father said that he just had sympathy is all. one red-blooded american male to another. that i could have said yes. could have given the boy a chance.
the next time i told my family a story at the dinner table, i'd learned my lesson.
"i hit him," i said. i saw my father's face contort out of the corner of my eye. my heart raced. i smiled through my trembling chin. "he kept doing it. so i hit him again."
"that makes you a bully."
this label fit me better. "only to people who bully me first."
"i think he deserved it," my brother said and fist bumped me over the bowl of mashed potatoes
"me too," my sister said. she watched my dad with interest, learning her own lessons. "im glad you hit him."
"you can always tell a teacher," my step-mom said, diffusing. she offered my dad more wine. "that should be the first step."
"you're going to kill someone one day," my dad said.
and, angry and fourteen, i hoped he was right.
