I was eight years old when I first punched someone in the face. This memory surprises most people who know me well. It even surprises me, actually, despite how often I talk about punching people in the face. It’s my answer to everyone’s problems. Someone stole your phone? Punch them in the face. Your boyfriend dumped you? Punch him in the face. You mistakenly referred to your least favorite teacher as “ugly old hag-whore” whilst she was standing behind you? Punch yourself in the face. Or you could punch her, I guess, if you like getting suspended. I don’t judge.

But you punching your teacher in the face to solve your problem isn’t really the point. The point is that me punching a seven-year-old boy in the face is surprising. Some might say sad, or perhaps disturbing, but those people can stop reading this story. For those of you that think this is wildly hilarious, or even just mildly amusing, please, do continue!

When my brother was in first grade, he was diagnosed with tourettes syndrome. No, not the exciting kind. He didn’t scream obscenities at random intervals. He twitched. He would stretch his arms out at his side and his mouth would jerkily open in a silent yell. His body would tense up, and it was even worse when he was nervous. Unfortunately, the grade above Gregory’s and below mine was plagued with children who were incapable of compassion, understanding, and sometimes thought. A choice few would occasionally tease poor, little Gregory, but there was one boy, Joseph, who was the main antagonist, always there, teasing and taunting. “Hey, Twitchy. Wha’chu twichin’ at? Huh, Gweggy? You’re such a nerd.” These were some of the nice things he would say if he was in a good mood. He wasn’t often in a good mood, which was odd considering he was seven.

There was one day, I believe during mid-March, when Joseph was in a particularly bad mood. The bus ride home was absolute hell for Gregory. Trapped in the back by Joseph and a few of his friends, Gregory had to endure two entire drop-offs of “Twitchy Gweggy.” In retrospect, I realize that I probably should have sat with him in the back, instead of near the front with my friends, but such is life. Besides, I was eight. Did I really want to be seen sitting with my admittedly nerdy younger brother? I think not. Either way, I don’t think that I could have prevented what came next.

Our stop at Victoria and Archibald finally arrived. It was very pretty that day, on that street. It was a sunny day, and the young leaves on the numerous trees were a bright, joyous green. Joseph, picking on my brother, was a sore spot in my vision. It turned into a nasty bruise when I saw the bully grab Gregory’s backpack straight off from his shoulders and toss it into the middle of Victoria. A few onlookers murmured or gasped. His backpack was in the street! Those were dangerous places for the lower elementary students. Much like highways are for everyone else. You just don’t walk on them because you usually die. Even though this street was deserted save for one or two parked cars along the opposite sidewalk, everyone felt as if Gregory’s backpack was gone forever, lost to the sea of raging hot black tar. It might as well have swallowed it up.

My face, I’m sure, was quite red with anger. Nobody messed with my brother like that. Well, except for me, of course.

I stormed over to where Joseph stood smirking and Gregory stood gawking. I can’t remember exactly what nasty, horrible thing I said to Joseph, but it was probably something like: “You stupid buttface! Joseph, jeez, you jerkhead!” Such were insults in third grade. I told him, in as stern a voice as a little girl could muster, to go and get my brother’s backpack. He staunchly refused, as I expected he would. My requested was repeated several times, each followed by a lame comeback that sounded somewhat insulting. At this point, we were both yelling. I pushed him a bit to make my point a bit clearer. I didn’t know my strength, so he stumbled back and hit a tree. His mother must have never taught him much of anything, because he decided to push back. We had a little tussle. He mostly pushed, and rather sharply at that, where it felt like he was hitting and pushing at the same time. I mostly hit, slaps and the like. The tussle lasted for, oh, about ten, fifteen seconds, at most, before I got completely fed up. I snapped. I reeled my fist back and launched it forward. He tried to block it with his face, which I think was a bad move, but, as I said before, I’m not one to judge.

The next couple of minutes were a blur, most likely because my tiny eight-year-old mind could not handle the complexity of just having actually inflicted minor pain on another. Yes, minor. I was not and still am not strong. At the most, his face was red for a few hours. All I know is that a few minutes later, Gregory, his backpack, and I were on our way home, and Joseph would not pick on Gregory again. I also knew that I felt awesome.

That awesome died quickly the next day when I was told to report to the Vice Principal’s office. My heart suddenly decided to go chill with my intestines and watch my stomach do acrobatic stunts. Fun for my heart, not fun for me. That was the first time I had ever been called in there, but, despite my heart’s crazy antics, I was not scared. Nervous, yes, but not scared. Walking down the hall, my head lifted itself up, and I walked proudly into the office. I sat between Gregory and Joseph in front of the looming desk that held a multitude of mysterious office supplies.

The Vice looked at us three for what felt like ages. It was a long, hard look that made you want to be a perfect angel for the rest of your life. I’m pretty sure that it could have been used to reform criminals. Needless to say, I stayed silent as Joseph was told to retell the tale.

Long story short, he lied mercilessly. The attack on his life was unprovoked, he barely knew either of us, I had almost marred his perfect face. Bullshit. Pure bullshit. I almost admired him for how well he could lie, but my hatred of his cowardice was too much. I almost cried out because his lies hurt me physically. I’m sure my gasps and hmphs were enough to get my point across at that time.

Then it was my turn. I told the story as it had been, a story of a third party sticking up for the little guy, defeating the dragon, and saving the day for all! Although, I didn’t embellish it that much. I think I just exaggerated how much his pushes had hurt my little girl body.

But, no. Joseph was much too good. The Vice believed him instead. Our story was two to one, and she believed him. Two upstanding students versus a known delinquent and she believed him. Granted, she was new, but this was no excuse. She was supposed to lay down the law, protect the innocent, and send a strict warning home with the offender! But, no. No. She failed in her duty and sent Joseph back to class with a forced apology from me. As for Gregory and I, we got the short stick. Both of us had a strike against our bus privileges. Two more and we had to walk or get picked up. We never got another, but that’s not the point. Sure, I deserved one for punching a kid in the face, regardless of reasons, but Gregory? No! No, no, no, no, a million times no. He had done nothing but get made fun of. My emotions could not fit words. To this day, even armed with a dictionary and thesaurus, I cannot tell you how I felt. Anger comes to mind. Betrayal, hatred, and rage all do as well, but none— none— can match what coursed through my veins and poisoned my mind.

And that was the day that I lost faith in the school penal system. And the day before that was the day that I first punched a kid in the face. I do somewhat regret my hasty and irrational decision to enter into fisticuffs, but… I have to admit—damn, did it feel good.