When I was five years old, I had a friend named Rich. My mother and I lived alone in an apartment in Massachusetts and Rich would often come over to play. One day my mother asked me if I would like it if Rich were to be my brother. Not too long after that, he was. Rich is only six months younger than I am but for some reason I fell into the older brother role.

We fought as kids. I don’t mean we had the sort of rough and tumble fights that result in sniffles and hurt feelings for a few days, although we had those as well. No, I mean we fought. We fought to hurt.

There’s one particular fight that stands out above the others. We were 13 years old. Our father required us to complete a list of yard work every Saturday before we could go or do anything else. This was always fertile ground for conflict between us. Both of us were pissed at being forced to pull weeds in the Arizona sun, sweep the damn driveway that didn’t need sweeping in the Arizona sun, use a push mower on brown grass that had no business growing in the Arizona sun, or do anything else but cool off in a pool in the Arizona sun.

We had some legendary brawls. We gave and we got as is the way of brothers since there have been brothers.

This fight wasn’t like that.

It was hot. We were sweeping the sidewalk in front of our house (it was on the list) and Rich had been hectoring me since we’d begun. The list was maybe half finished with the truly shitty stuff still up. I was doing my best to ignore him, not let him get under my skin. I was standing there, legs shoulder width apart, broom in my hands, getting ready to push a scant pile of pebbles and dust into a waiting dust pan. A dust pan held by my brother who was down on one knee in front of me, looking up into my eyes with a sneer on his face and the sound of whatever it was that pushed me over the edge just past his lips.

I hit him. I hit him hard. I can still feel the way the broom handle vibrated with the sensation of hardwood meeting a dense skull in the palms of my hands. The look on my brother’s face: The complete and utter surprise, the shock of betrayal, the pain, so searing and bright, that brings immediate tears but leaves one incapable of crying, his face contorted, mouth hanging wide open, as one hand oh so slowly made its way towards where I struck him.

I still call it a fight but it wasn’t. It wasn’t a fight at all. It was one person taking advantage of another’s inherent trust. It was a complete lack of control born of rage. I’ve been very careful about getting angry ever since that day. I know how easy it can happen. I know how bad it feels to cause that kind of pain towards my brother. I thought I’d learned one of those great life lessons that everyone learns at some point in their life. I thought I’d had a visceral moment of empathy with my brother the very second after I hit him, that I’d felt his pain as well as the revulsion of being the one to have inflicted it in that particular way.

But I’ve never really had to hold the dust pan. I learned the lesson of non violence through the perpetration of violence. This is not something to be proud of.

I’ve given much thought to the idea of empathy since I was very young.

As the old masters invariably say, the ones worth listening to anyway, I am still learning.

The thing about acquiring learning, understanding, and wisdom is the tendency to think that gives you the right to dispense that learning, understanding or wisdom.

It doesn’t.

Wanting to help, being able to help, needing to help – these are all noble attitudes to adopt. It doesn’t give you the right to bully your way into someone else’s life.

I do not like bullies. Even ones that do so for the best and the most noble of reasons, perhaps from them most of all. Can you imagine a world full of saints? A world of busybodies going around pointing out your many failings?

I recently stomped on someone’s life. Because I thought it was the right thing to do.

It wasn’t. It never is. I have since asked for forgiveness. I do not expect to receive it.

I am still learning.

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