I don’t lose my temper often. As a matter of fact, in my adult life, I can think of only five times that I’ve let off steam, and I know it involved bullying, which I abhor. I remember that losing my temper felt pretty good at the time, until remorse set in over my loss of self-control.
When I was a child, I once lost my temper and it caused me great suffering. I was in fourth grade, walking home from school, when a big 7th grade boy confronted me, and called me a “Dirty German!” A bit of history is necessary at this point of the story. When I was a toddler, my family and I escaped the Nazis by the skin of our teeth, and we loved the United States of America as only formerly persecuted immigrants can. So, when I was called a “Dirty German,” I stared up at my tormenter, made a fist, closed my eyes and screaming, “I am an American,” swung my fist as high as I could, and connected with his nose.
Everything went silent. Even the birds ceased chirping. I opened my eyes. The big boy had disappeared. Then I looked at my little dress and saw that I was covered with blood. I had killed him! But where was the body? It began to rain, and by the time I got home, I was soaked. Luckily the rain had washed away much of the evidence. I threw the dress into the bathroom hamper, told my mother that I had killed somebody and went to bed. Mother was upset that I didn’t want any dinner, but thought it was just another story told by her weird child, and assured me that I hadn’t killed anyone, because I was too short. I dreamed about the electric chair.
The next day, when I arrived at school, I spied the not-so-dead boy at his locker. His nose was a bit swollen, but otherwise he looked okay. I was so relieved that he was alive that I ran over to give him a hug, but he yelled, “You stay away from me.” So I did. On second thought, I decided that I didn’t want to hug him anyway.
I also remember losing my temper when I was twenty-five years old. My husband and I were visiting my parents, who lived in a small town in Indiana. They had a meeting to attend, so my husband and I went to dinner at the one nice restaurant in town. Our waitress was a woman with whom I had attended high school. In our yearbook, she was voted, “The most popular girl in the class.” Now she was a single mother, raising a young son, waiting tables in the small town she had never left.
We chatted a bit about days gone by, when suddenly the door opened and four boisterous men, who smelled of beer, entered the restaurant and plopped down at the table next to ours. They began to insult and hassle my former classmate, who avoided their groping hands while she took their order. I remembered that she had always excelled in Dodge Ball in P.E. class.
When she went into the kitchen to place their orders, I turned to them and said, “The four of you owe that woman an apology. How would you feel if she was your mother, and four buffoons came in and hassled her? That woman is working hard to raise a child on her own. You jerks should be ashamed of yourselves, and you need to make up for your rotten behavior. Give her a big tip and straighten up!” Then I noticed their Notre Dame Football jerseys and added the coup de gras, “God is watching you!” Which I thought was a really good touch.
The men fell silent. I turned back to my table and noticed that my husband had slid down so far in his chair that he was practically under the table. “There are four of them,” he hissed. “I can’t take on four drunken Notre Dame football fans.” “Well,” I responded, I know how to make a bloody nose or two.” That didn’t console him at all.
When the waitress returned with their orders, the four men were perfect gentlemen. They said “Please” and “Thank You” in their best Altar Boy voices. She didn’t know what had happened, but was obviously pleased. My husband was so relieved that he wouldn’t be beaten to a pulp that he also left a big tip, and the “bloody nose” remark gave him something to think about for the next 40 years.
Esther Blumenfeld (A push too far. Not a pretty sight)