Trying To Walk In Beauty

The one fight that I was in, if it even qualifies as a fight, was when my family was attending a ceremony. My cousins and I were just kids and trying to act like badasses. We had just discovered heavy metal, denim jackets and foul mouths to go along with it. I don’t remember who started talking shit to who first but next thing I remember, my cousins and I were headed to the nearest wash to fight and I was the fighter from our group. I remember the next few moments so vividly. Perhaps because it was a mixture of feeling scared, anxious and wondering how I got myself into this. My opponent, the fighter from their group and I were standing toe to toe, arms raised in balls of fists. Then the next moment, a rumble of fists flying and smashing into upper body parts. I don’t remember any hair pulling of any kind. And just as quickly as it began, it was over and my opponent was down on the floor of the wash. I was standing over her with my hands still rolled up in fists, waiting for her to get up and come at me again. She began to cry, full on sobbing with fat tears rolling down her face. I had won, but on the inside, I didn’t feel like I did. In fact, I felt the exact opposite, I felt like shit! I started to cry along side of her. I don’t know when but all my cousins were upon me, patting me on my back side, congratulating me on my win. I remember feeling bad for imposing pain onto another human being. Even at that young age, I learned then and there that fighting wasn’t for me. I never got into another fight. It just wasn’t for me. To hurt another for the sheer gain or enjoyment of it. It was a good thing I was tall, taller than most girls so no one messed with me all through my junior high and my high school years.