I’ve been reading assorted biographies of dead writers and artists and keep running across the concept of inspiration. I’m not sure that I completely agree that an idea has to come from any old place; things sometimes just happen. But it is true that large swaths of my work take the form of an answer to a question.
The best example: one sunny day in Portland I stood silently on a sidewalk as two people I knew and liked, both bespectacled girls in braids, had a slap fight in the entry to the health food store on Fremont. I could have stopped the altercation, but I elected to stand aside and remain silent. The episode ended when the manager came out and said Excuse me, ladies, can I help you?
When I told that story to Inga she was shocked. Why didn’t you do something?
I replied that I had no part in their feud. It did not seem my place to interfere.
But her question made me think about why my instinct was to observe rather than take action. Thinking about the reasons opened up a flood of unwanted memories.
I grew up in a violent household. I watched my aunts and uncles beating the shit out of each other and their children. I had a baby with someone I met in criminal court. I know what rage tastes like, I know how to protect myself, and I have never been afraid to hit back.
It would have been easier from any angle to continue to lead a fighting life. I have been conditioned to act out of anger. I love my hometown and, insofar as I was capable of feeling anything after the accident, I loved the hooligans I dated in my youth. But I made a specific and deliberate choice to walk away and create a life that is not contaminated by violence – of any kind.
From my perspective, it doesn’t matter why people hurt each other. There are always valid perspectives and excuses on both sides. Why did the fight at the health food store start? Who cares? Both of those girls felt that they were right. Besides, it was more than slightly ridiculous to witness some kind of turf war erupting over the bins of organic vegetables.
The fights I’ve witnessed or conducted were just the same: a strange mixture of bathos and animosity exploding over transgressions that, years later, I do not remember.
I rejected violence not because I was weak or scared, but rather because I find it easy and banal.
I responded to Inga’s question with a long email that succinctly outlined what would end up, within the week, as the Fighting essays.
The fight itself was not inspiring; fights are in fact squalid. But when I had to account for my instinctual reaction I wrote what I feel is the best part of a memoir about danger.