My father never hit me. In fact, no one ever hit me, not really, not in anger with the intent to hurt me. I was once jumped by a gang in the Philadelphia subway. The surrounded me and tried to force me to fight the youngest and smallest member of the gang. I just kept talking and making jokes and talking and looking into their eyes and talking. I wasn’t going to hit this kid (who could probably beat the crap out of me.} I wasn’t going to hit anyone. I couldn’t cross that line and commit violence. And I think being a victim of violence must be even worse. You have no choice. Someone does it to you, and no matter how tough or callous you may be, I think it leaves a scar.

I’m so sorry your father did that. He shouldn’t have, and it wasn’t your fault.

And, btw, the gang eventually just walked away.

Writing about life and love, along with a few crazy stories just for fun.

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