That Little Leap

There’s a guy in China who figured out a great way to learn English. He shouts. He believes that language is learned by the lips and tongue. So he shouts English words and phrases. The guy’s name is Li Yang. He claims to have taught twenty million people how to shout English. He has become famous. But I hadn’t heard of him until he beat up his wife. His wife didn’t like it when Li Yang beat her up. She posted pictures of her injuries online. Which forced him to apologize in public. When asked why he did it, he said he didn’t think she’d tell anyone. 

Apparently, domestic abuse is very common in China. It’s pretty damned common in here in the United States as well. I wasn’t beaten as a child. Unless you count belt whippings. I got them quite often, as I remember. I’d have done something minor like, one time, lighting the woods on fire. Mainly it was my father who administered them. I’d have to pull my pants down and lie over his knee and he’d double up the belt and let me have it. I remember trying to stop it with my hands, but that made it worse because it would go on longer then. When I first became a father, I figured spanking kids was what we parents were supposed to do. I remember spanking my oldest son, Sam, for the first and last time. He was probably ten years old. He and his cousin, Steve, were beating on Steve’s younger brother, Sean. Sean was crying, and I knew I was supposed to do something. I had warned my boys on a number of occasions against beating on Sean, but the little bastards just wouldn’t listen. They continued to beat on Sean every chance they got. I remember wading into the fray and plucking up Sam by his collar. He was much lighter than I thought he’d be. I walked him into his bedroom and threw him down on the bed. I said something like, “I’m going to give you a spanking now.” This is more heads up than my father ever gave me. Of course, he never really had to tell us what he was going to do. When he told us to pull our pants down and bend over his knee, we could pretty much guess what was coming. I tried to get Sam on his belly so I could spank him, but he wouldn’t go. It was really hard to get him on his belly even though I was much bigger and stronger than he was. Finally, I got him into spanking position and I took a few whacks with my open hand. Sam managed to get his hands in the way so I couldn’t get him good. And I was trying to get his arm out of the way while, at the same time, keeping him on his belly which was damned near impossible. It was at this point, as I was struggling to administer this corporal punishment and meeting with resistance, when something leapt up inside my stomach and I stopped. I let Sam go. He ran away somewhere and I was left alone for a while. 

I knew why I had stopped. That thing that leaped up was a dangerous thing. I’ve felt it on a number of occasions in my life. It had been with me each and every time I had gotten into a street fight, which I have done many times in my youth. That little leap of fury. That surge of adrenalin. Always a powerful weapon for me. Wouldn’t let me lose a fight. Wouldn’t let me feel any pain when I got hit in the face. Gave me the absolute surety of victory when I needed to kick someone’s ass. (Almost absolute. There was that one time in third grade with Gary Maille in the playground of Sergeant School, and then once again in college with the captain of the football team in the middle of that icy street in Framingham, Massachusetts). I got in way too many fights. I don’t know why. I was probably insecure or something. If someone put me down, I wouldn’t let it go. If someone put one of my friends down, I wouldn’t let it go. If someone stole something from me. Or disrespected me in any way. I didn’t need to worry. For one thing, I had that little leap. For another thing, I wasn’t afraid to put it all on the line. I wasn’t afraid to die. Because I was young. And I didn’t know what it would be like when I finally fell in love. When I had children. I didn’t know what I had the potential of losing. 

But here I was, trying to do what I thought fathers should do, trying to be pragmatic and not angry and there it was, the little leap of warrior strength. And it frightened me. It frightened me because I knew very well what it meant. In some of my fights, I blacked out. When it was over, I couldn’t recall what had happened. I’d remember standing over the guy whose ass I had kicked and seeing all the blood, but I often didn’t remember what I had done to cause all the damage. What if this same thing happened with my son? Or my wife? This was the last time I hit anyone. I don’t blame my father for whipping me with his belt. Raising those white welts on my ass. I’m sure I deserved it. And it did make me fear my father. But I don’t want my children to fear me. And I don’t want to hurt my children. Or anyone else. I don’t know how I turned a news story about a famous Chinese English teacher into a story about myself. I apologize for that. I didn’t mean to do it. I’ll never do it again. Li Yang won’t beat his wife again either because a restraining order has been issued. An extremely rare thing, from what they say on NPR, in China. And a divorce has been granted. And custody awarded to his wife, Kim Lee. It took courage for her to post those pictures. It took no courage for Li Yang to inflict damage upon her. Not that I don’t understand it. Because I think I do understand it. At one level. I don’t excuse it, but I do understand what happens in the gut, that almost irresistible leap of fury. Almost irresistible. But not entirely irresistible. It’s something that, perhaps, some people have never experienced. Hitting someone. Or getting hit by someone. That animalistic exchange. Mixed into the cocktail of our DNA. Way down deep. The leap. The thing that must be resisted. If there is to be such a thing as civilization.