I had an interesting childhood. I fought all of the time. So much so that my elementary school assistant principal still refers to me as “the fighter”. Don’t think that I was a bully. That is not at all the case. I loathed those who picked on weaker kids and it was, in fact, those bullies that I sought out. You might say I was an equalizer.

My parents were, to say the least, disturbed by my behavior. My father was beside himself as spankings would not change my behavior. I felt convicted. It wasn’t until he saw my birthday party was populated by “misfits” (handicapped, small children, “goofy” children, etc) that he began to understand. When they each told him how, on one occasion or another, I had defended them; my big ol’ dad seemed a little misty eyed.

It was often that I would find myself in the principal’s office where the secretary would often listen at the door to hear my legalistic excuses for fisticuffs. It always seemed, on paper, to have been instigated by the other guy.  Fourteen fights between 3^rd and 8^th grade and it was always the other guys fault. And getting decent grade the whole time.

Once this had gone on for a while, I would be greeted by the principal with “what now!?” and I would smile and deliver one of my prize winning opening statements. The big bruisers that I defeated soon learned to walk away from me and to not pester those that I cared about.

I know. I know. Some of you legitimate women are going to wonder why I wouldn’t just talk it out with the other kids. Heck, if I though they wanted to talk, I would have talked with them. And some of you feminized men (versus legitimate women) are going to wonder the same thing. Same answer.

What do I have to show for it? The pride in knowing that, pain not withstanding, I will always do the right thing, twelve stitches under my eye, a broken toe, bruised ribs and dried up tears.