on violence

i've learned to avert eye contact. it's a discipline formed not from peace or respect, but a base desire for the absence of conflict.

she was a small vietnamese girl, hair straightened and streaked with red, wearing the type of frilly party dress one typically wears at the age of 15, when one wants to declare loudly the presence of legs, titties, and hormones.

and boy, were those legs, titties, and hormones grilling me in my slummy, wife beater and lounge pants splendor. she stared as we waited for the elevator to come down, and while i could feel her slimy condescension oozing my way, i can't say i was very affected by it. it hasn't been the first time.

at least, until she walked into the elevator and, without pausing, hit the "close" button just as i started walking in. the heavy doors caught me on my shoulder ever so slightly, impeding neither my progress nor disrupting my balance, as those doors can be prone to do.

as i caught her glance in the mirrored walls of the elevator, her self-content smirk at what she had done, the physical non-injury gave way to a visceral anger. i seriously contemplated grabbing a handful of the girl's hair and slapping the cool off her face.

even in front of what seemed to be her sister and her nephew.

being a foreigner is like that sometimes. unable to defend yourself with words, unable to decipher the myriad language and signals of innumerable others, you lose the nuance of your emotions. the smallest slights and non-incidents give way to irrational anger, acts of violence disproportionate to their provocation.

a minute long ride in an elevator becoming an exercise in quelling a riot of impulse.