Kirk Miller art

After watching Elon Musk DOGEd at the White House and appear with a black eye, an injury he claimed came from his own son, at his own instruction—I was reminded of a strange, enduring memory from my childhood with my father.

As a young boy, I was small and painfully thin—five feet tall until my junior year of high school and barely more than skin and bone. I only remember being in two fights in my life, both in school—one in grade school, the other in junior high. I was bullied, unsurprisingly, for my frailty and size. The memories are a bit hazy, but after one of those encounters, my father decided it was time I learned to defend myself.

He took me out to the backyard and handed me a pair of boxing gloves. He showed me how to stand properly, how to raise my fists, and then—without a hint of irony—instructed me to punch him in the head. Repeatedly. I was reluctant, but I followed his command. After a few blows, he told me that was enough. I had learned what I needed to know. I was “ready,” as he put it, to protect myself. 

But he didn’t stop there. My father leaned in, and with a look that suggested he was imparting some sacred, hard-won wisdom, said, “If your fists aren’t enough, and there’s a brick bat nearby—don’t hesitate. Use it. Even the odds.” 

I never had to throw another punch in my life. I never wanted to. That backyard lesson, rough as it was, taught me more than how to fight, it clarified who I was. I became, by nature and by choice, a lover, not a fighter.