The Inside Assyria Discussion Forum #5

=> The Psychology Of The Tough Male

Posted by pancho (Guest) - Friday, March 2 2007, 17:06:50 (CET)
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Now why would anyone declare that he was going to seduce Bill´s girlfriend, when he wasn´t home, and be surprised when he arrived to find Bill waiting there?

Why Bill threaten the fellow that if he ever came to Ceres Bill would "fill his mouth with dirt and cuff him", and then go looking around Ceres for him?

If you meant to do either, you´d keep your mouth shut so the guy would COME to Ceres and and not be at your house where your girlfreind is waiting while you drive around with cuffs and dirt in your car, unless of course this was your way of telling him NOT to come near you...and you knew your girlfriend well?

I think anyone who issues the kinds of threats and promises of mayhem “if I ever see you”, as Bill Yonan just did got his ideas from the movies or teevee and not from anything real. In the movies Gary Cooper can pummel a punk kid till he passes out…and walk away. In real life, in a place called “Wild”…you would never do that. If forced to such a point, you’d have to kill the guy too, not just humiliate him...for if he was the type to attack you for no good reason, how is a good thrashing going to improve his feelings towards you? In a place and time like that, or any other, fifteen good ways could be found to ambush or do you injury in some other way.

Some of the Black kids who lived with me for a few years and older brothers and friends of theirs were always the sweetest guys…and in any confrontation, told me they NEVER talked tough or threatened anything, on the contrary they would get as small as they could, smile stupidly and edge closer to shake hands and patch things up, till they got close enough take out on eye with one, long fingernail, because with one eye gone and oozing down the toughest cheek, people become amazingly unglued and preoccupied with other things. Of course after that you had better move far away..which is the reason that real tough people try so hard to be reasonable and never threaten...it is the bully and loudmouth who’s always managed to run home fast, to his sister, who does the tough talk.

I had the same shock about tough guys when we moved back to the United States from a very rough couple of years in Kuwait. In 1956, when we moved back there from San Francisco, my older brother and I were two of five Christians in a school filled to bursting with Muslim boys and men…that very year education had been made compulsory and the cut-off age must have been high because I had a nineteen year-old man in my fourth-grade classs..and he hated my guts from the first day.

We two were not only Christians, but I was very fair-skinned with light brown hair…a quick mark for humiliation by boys forced to indulge in homosexuality with the added thrill of using it as a weapon. I learned to keep my back to the wall and never be caught anywhere alone. The classroom was no better because I spoke no Arabic and from the first day the teachers took great satisfaction in beating my open palms and knuckles for every question put to me in Arabic I couldn’t understand. My worst beating came from the religion teacher who was strict Wahabi, which could have been an ice cream flavor to me for all I knew about the culture. He snuck up behind me one day while I was drawing him, of all people, instead of studying my Koran…and without warning to open my hand, rained such a series of blows on my head that I’m surprised I didn’t pass out.

I barely escaped the bastinado, which was reserved for those students who actually did something..but I saw it applied a few times…it’s a nasty business, very humiliating and leaves the bottoms of your feet sore for days so that you have to hobble like a wounded animal. Of course there were constant fights. The worst part was walking home through the poorer parts of the neighborhoods, as filled with thugs as any neighborhood in Christendom. They never came at you one at a time but in groups of five and ten…running was all we could do and we ran…as fast as we could. But we didn’t always get away.

The time I thought was my end came the day after the British bombed the civilian town of Port Said in Egypt in retaliation for Nasser’s closing the Suez Canal to them. The day after the streets of Kuwait were flooded with pamphlets and posters showing the civilian carnage…dead mothers dead babies, that sort of thing.

The school errupted in violent demonstrations against the “inglezi” criminals…and since I didn’t speak a word of Arabic and had just come from three years in the United States, from a serene and upscale neighborhood called Sir Francis Drake…and wore American clothes close enough to make me look British, I was the only reasonable facsimile of an Englishman they could lay their enraged hands on. The army had been mobilized to break up crowds and one unit was set to surround the school walls outside so the students wouldn’t get out and join the larger demonstrations going on everywhere. That was fine only my brother and I were trapped inside. I can remember like it was yesterday being surrounded by a sea of screaming faces, fists striking at me…backing up till I hit the wall behind me…placards and posters with dead mothers and children on them were shoved in my face and choking voices cried out in broken English, “your fadder your madder your seester”..over and over again, The teachers were no friends of ours but must have intervened or we never would have survived that day.

My Assyrian father, who’d grown up in Mosul surrounded by Muslim gangs forgot that he lived in an Assyrian neighborhood where the boys formed their own gang….my brother and I were alone, against everyone else. After that day we were given a car and drove to school each day, hiding the car in a different location and escaping over the wall before the start of the last period so as to make it home alive. A few months after that, tired of cleaning blood off our clothes and faces , we were sent to boarding school in Baghdad and then to the States when the Revolution began in 1958 in Iraq.

By the time I reached the States and found myself in high school, I was constantly amazed at the fights boys would have over nothing…absolutely nothing…”you looking at me”? They’d meet after school, exchange a few half-hearted blows and at the first hint of blood, stop and shake hands and usually become friends or at least forget whatever made them “fight”. This was something odd to me for I had done anything I could to avoid fights…because they all could have ended in serious injury or death…each and every time. If a boy called me a “chicken” I’d smile and say not today thanks. If I was called a “coward” I smiled and said I was a chicken today…I was determined to never have a fight again as long as I lived…but knew that if I couldn’t avoid one..if it was brought to me…I’d do everything in my power…during the fight and after…

When Chance Reynolds, that convict whose family I supported and bought horses for etc, refused to give me my copy of the contract stating the horses were ours, even though I’d paid for them…he turned loco on me and told me to get up and fight. I asked him what that would prove. His answer was right out of teevee…”it proves I’ll knock you on your ass”.

“And what do you think will happen then”?, I asked. My point being that the only way to keep me on my ass would be to kill me…for I would surely get up otherwise and then what? I knew his wife was watching from the window inside with a friend of theirs and that my word wouldn’t count for much so I stood up and shook his hand and said I hoped he’d have a nice day..and left.

Two weeks later, thinking we were in Hollywood, or Turlock…he made the mistake of charging me on his horse, where I sat on mine, waiting for my daughter to adjust her stirrup…he came thundering from his ranch…we were out on the open desert..right at me at top speed. I sat still and calm in my saddle…I always get calm at moments like that,,,waiting. I was sure he’d stop because a collision at that speed with such heavy animals would injure everyone…I’m guessing he thought I’d turn and run back home…he didn’t stop, or couldn’t and at our collision my horse went up and to the side and almost over on his back…I managed to hang on, barely…Chance next began to whip my face with the long ends of his reins…he wore spurs and so was able to keep driving his terrified horse into mine, while I had to struggle to hold my horse in place and facing him..because there wasn’t anywhere my horse wanted to be less than under me. Having to keep one hand before my face to protect my eyes, while constantly wheeling my horse around into his charge, I felt myself begin to slip from the saddle and used the reins, poor horse, to ease myself down onto my back…the reins breaking off in my hand…and a good thing too because now Chance was digging his heels into his horse to force it to trample me on the ground…he also backed it up and charged at me…I used the rein ends in my hand to whip the horses nose…and between the two of us we drove that horse mad…he next made the horse rear up, trying to come down on me…but I managed to stand up and we went at it…him backing up for a running start at me..and me, reins in hand trying to catch his horse’s nose a good wallop before it did any damage.

My son saw us and drove my truck down…I got into it…Chance saw his mistake and took off like a Bill across the open ground…I ran him down…and drove right over him…he was knocked unconscious and his horse, poor animal, had to be destroyed the next day…and I needed a lawyer real fast. Things had gotten this bad because Interpol and the United States Marshalls had failed repeatedly to come arrest the skunk..and he’d figured out that I was the one who contacted them.,..I did that because after we parted ways he continued to scam other people and I had to do something…I thought they would run again when told…but instead he and his wife and friends waged a four month war of intimidation against me…even firing guns outside my ranch after my family returned to the states…The very day of the attack, after I’d spoken, loudly, with the US Marshalls…Interpol called from Mexico City to say they were sorry but they’d be there soon…I told the lady to forget it..that if they didn’t want the rat bastard, I would take care of it myself..said all I wanted was for him and his brood to leave…I hung up and over the next few days managed to, what I won’t tell here, to get the three couples to leave..one couple for good, the other stayed away for four months and Chance and his family ran to Ajjiic where the people became suspicious and checked the web…called the Marshalls and this time within a day or two, all the paperwork being already in place, they came and took him back to prison in America…there is much more to the story, but since I mentioned it earlier, I thought to put down this much because I didn’t want to seem to be saying things just to be cute…like Bill.

I despise violence…except in self-defense…and my experience in life has led me to do anything I can to avoid a fight…I’ll never start one and never have…but I’ve never walked away from a good one. I have no intention of ever doing anything to Bill…and even took back my silly “threat” against his asshole…it remains to be seen if he’ll show the better part of discretion and retract his threatening words or…to help him along, I’ll send a copy and a complaint to whoever issues his sort of license to carry a gun…along with a note to the Better Business bureau of Modesto, or wherever he makes his living…at this time., especially, America needs no hotheaded Iraqis carrying guns around our cities, seeking personal revenge for slights against a sister…especially one who asked for every one she got.

always remain calm…for if there’s damage to be done, you might avoid doing it to yourself.

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