STREET FIGHTIN’ MAN: I was pondering my childhood a few days ago, and one of the topics of interest was fighting. I was a skinny and unphysical kind-of kid, so fighting wasn’t my forte. Most of the time the tougher guys picked on me, and I had to just suck it up.

But for better or for worse, I did my share of fighting as a child; mostly against my brother, to the chagrin of my parents. To this day, I still claim that HE STARTED IT — most of the time, anyway. As to fighting other kids, I generally shied away from that. But it did happen a couple of times.

I won’t claim that every punch I threw in anger was an act of defense. There were one or two times when I imitated my tormentors by finding a kid who was even weaker than me and picking on him. Ironically, this would give those above me in the physical pecking order further cause to come down on me, so as to defend the weaker ones from my aggression. Yes, their sudden interest in defending the downtrodden was a bit cheeky. At least I didn’t try to justify my own aggression; deep down inside I knew it was sick, and I eventually grew out of it.

I think it was in fourth grade when I had my big fight with a guy named Dennis. It was during recess. He had me in a corner and was picking on me, with the usual display of physical humiliation and dominance. But that morning, Dennis made a mistake by not waiting for his friends to gang up on me. He got me on a bad day; I just got fed up. So I went after him. Not in a “manly fashion” either; I didn’t take the pugilist pose with fists raised, waiting for a “fair fight”. I just lunged at my little classmate, doing all the punching and scratching and kicking and biting that I could. Well, the kids all gathered round and the teacher eventually got there and broke us apart. I was a bit red and scuffed up, but I still had all my teeth and my eyes still seemed to be working. Mr. Dennis was breathing too, but had some cuts needing a dab or two of mercurichrome. After they administered a few band-aids, Dennis and I were herded off to the principal’s office. I was lectured at, but Mr. Chandler basically knew what had happened. So Dennis got the worse end of the stick in terms of adult opprobrium. I seem to recall Mr. Chandler getting in his face at one point.

Well, life went on after that. One or two kids congratulated me for taking Dennis on (they were fellow weaklings), but the majority of the boys said that I had “fought like a girl”. You might have thought that things would have gotten worse for me — you would expect that Dennis and his friends would have made my life miserable. But actually, they didn’t. For the next couple of years, I was pretty much left alone. In fact, I had more friends and was generally accepted throughout 5th, 6th and 7th grades. Sad to say, but it took a nasty and violent act of retaliation to earn some respect and consideration during my later grammar school years.

Thus my current cynicism about human genetics and the possibility of avoiding warfare and violence. I wish Ms. Kolya (see below, May 22) and her peace-promoting friends the best of luck in teaching non-violence, but it’s a tough sell with this species.