FLIGHT, NOT FIGHT by Mel Rosenthal

It was the end of the school day at Orange High, and I was as usual down in the basement putting things away in my locker and/or getting clothes and books out of it, preparatory to heading home. While there, however, I said or did something that seriously offended a fellow student. This was a beefy, black-haired kid whose name I can't now remember, but still vivid in my mind are his hostile glare at me and the rumbling growl in which he voiced his anger. For my part, I was honestly puzzled -- I had no idea at all how I'd managed to trigger that anger, and had certainly had no such intention. But if I even thought of trying to explain this, to mollify him, I didn't get the chance. His fury quickly rose to critical mass and he rushed at me headlong.

My obvious obligation in this situation was to honor the Masculine Code, put up my dukes, and defend myself, in accordance with the standard stern injunctions most boys received from their fathers to stick up for themselves and fight like a man. My dad, however, an Eastern European much older than the average father of teenagers, had decidedly not instilled any such notions in me -- if anything, the reverse. And so, either true to my upbringing or simply obeying my natural inclination, or both, I chose flight over fight and, my adversary in hot pursuit, ran from the locker room up the stairs and out the school doors -- ran for my life.