"I don't like how you keep quiet over certain issues. Doesn't it bother you that you are being taken advantage of?" I said as I walked into the living room where my father was sitting on a sofa.
"You should calm down, child. I know what I'm doing..." My father was saying but I cut him off.
"What you're doing? You're not doing anything."
"And that's exactly what I'm doing. Not doing anything is what I am doing," he said.
"What? Would you rather let them win? Sometimes you need to show people that you can rave mad like them and come down to their level," i said, as I took a sit at the the sofa adjacent to him.
I disliked that my father always, as I thought of it, chickened out from confrontations. Even in situations when he was right. He mostly was always right. Growing up, I never saw him involved in fracas. He was too much of a peacemaker for my liking. Just like in a situation as this one, when he should be blowing hot and giving these assailants a taste of their own medicine, he'd rather not say anything. And it hurt me. Because keeping quiet means being guilty. It means accepting defeat. And I hated the feeling it left in my mouth. I hated him even more for letting me feel that way.
Anyways, all that changed when i had this thought-provoking, spirited discussion with him. One that gave me a paradigm shift.
"You don't approach things that way. And besides, you don't fight a battle when your opponent is ready. You fight when you are ready."
"When have you ever been ready? When will you ever be ready, father?" I asked.
"I am now. And I am fighting." he replied, as he picked up the TV remote.
"Fighting? How? By letting those people smear mud over your face, that's ridiculous ," I stood sharply,and struck my hand on the side stool, irritated.
"Now, come here. Sit," he patted the sofa and adjusted to make room for me. "My own father, your grandfather, would always tell me that it is the man you call a weak man that shows you where the strong man is buried," he said calmly.
I looked at him. Puzzled.
He continued, "Violence isn't always the answer. What if I exchange words with these people. What next? It might lead to a fight. And what next? Maybe one or both of us gets badly injured or dies. Where's the gain?"
"But you have to put up a fight lest they consider you a weakling," I queried.
"And how does their calling you a weakling make you a weakling? They can think all they want. Doesn't bother me," he shrugged.
"Dad!!!" I groaned.
"Listen to me. Remember when you were nine years old. One time we went to see a football game at Palmers and proceeded to go get our hair's cut?" he asked.
"I do. The day we went with Cousin Joel, right?"
"Right! I don't know if you recall the police coming to pick up a woman. Well, the reason was that her cousin with whom she lived had taken her wig without permission. She confronted her and some little fracas ensued. Just a little shove sent her cousin falling and losing consciousness. And that was it."
Curious, I asked, "Where's the lady now?"
"Well, I don't know but last I heard, she was in jail," he said, wearing a sad expression.
I had my mouth hanging.
Turning to look at me, he said, "Don't you think she'd be in regret wherever she is? That was something that dialogue and maybe stern warning would have resolved."
I nodded my head but said nothing. He went on.
"There are different instances where those words can play. Different contexts. In daily living, flexing muscle isn't all there is. Sometimes it's easier to act a fool. The hurt and humiliation lasts only a short while and that's that. It's the cheaper price to pay."
"So you're saying that I should allow anyone step on me and not do anything, even if I'm right?" I asked.
"No. I'm saying that there are other ways to respond and get the justice you deserve. Be the sensible person. You get that!"
And I smiled. Well, you meet my father. The wise one.
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SOKA🖤