Brotherly Love, Part Two

Hello Reader.

On Monday night, Mike, Sue, Ali, Suzanne (Sue's friend from back home), and myself went for a drink at Picapiedra. Being a Monday, the two-leveled bar was not very full. The five of us sat down and were talking when a guy sitting with a friend at a table behind us turned to us and joined our conversation. I couldn't tell where he was from, he seemed to speak a little of a number of languages, but stuck with Spanish mostly. He looked to be in his mid-twenties.

He was talking mostly to Mike and I. He asked where we were from and I told him I was from the US and Mike was from New Zealand. He began by saying that the US is a good country. He then began talking about how badly America is treating other countries in the world, followed by again saying 'America is a good country.' He said that he preferred Hitler to our leader now, 'but America is a good country.' He compared America to cancer, spreading itself over the world, 'but America is a good country.' I sat and listened. I figured there is no use in arguing with a half-drunken jerk. He moved on to say that Mike isn't really a New Zealander, but English... the natives of New Zealand are the only true Kiwis. At this point, Mike was trying to calm him down and, at the same time, explain that he should know the history before mak... He cut Mike off. Mike gave up on trying to talk to him. His friend chimed in from across his table saying that he (his friend) was black, but not African - that he was born in Cuba. Our new world politics professor kept insisting that his friend was, in fact, African. His voice was getting louder and we had heard just about enough. I told him we weren't going to listen to him anymore and we turned back to our table.

He didn't bother us anymore. I didn't really think too much about it, just another idiot I'm not going to waste my time with. He walked around for a while, not acknowledging us. We went on with our beer, laughing and chatting as usual. About ten minutes passed when he walked past our table, seemingly on his way out. He turned and looked straight at me. He began yelling 'Fuck You,' flicking me off, screaming that he was Arab, and slamming his fist on our table. Then he spit at me.

I sat in shock for the twenty seconds or so he was yelling. I was completely taken by surprise. One of the bartenders that had been wiping down the tables on the second floor came over and told him to leave. He stormed down the stairs and continued shouting from the doorway. The five of us just sat, speechless. The four of them looking at me.

I got up to go downstairs, but the bartender told me to stay where I was. I honestly don't know what I would have done downstairs. I looked back at the girls and Mike who were waving at me to come back to the table, saying 'it's not worth it.' I went back to sit down. I shook my head and said that I felt sorry for him. I said that I pity him more than anything. He stayed downstairs for a good ten minutes before finally leaving. I had stopped listening to what he was shouting.

Mike and the girls were understandably startled. They offered up apologies and expressed their confusion seeing as though I obviously didn't deserve being spit at. We walked outside and began to walk home. Sue then spotted our friend a couple of blocks up and asked us to walk slower. We were about to go our separate ways, my way being down the same street he was on. She begged me to spend the night at Mike's house just so I didn't have to walk by him. I told her that I was really not worried about him and didn't mind walking home. She pleaded that I do it, for her. Mike said it would be alright, so I walked home with Mike. He was really sympathetic all the way home, saying that, of all the Americans, that had to happen to one of the most friendly and caring. I told him that I was really okay... that I feel like I should have been more upset. I seriously think that my friends were more upset than I was.

We watched a little Family Guy and I fell asleep half-way through.

I woke up a few hours later and couldn't get back to sleep, partly because my allergies were acting up (I'm allergic to Diego) and partly because I couldn't turn my mind off. I walked home to write this entry.

In retrospect, they say, things become clearer. When I look back at a situation like this, I always wonder 'what if I had acted differently?' What if I had shouted back at him? What if I had cracked my beer bottle over his head? What if I got in a fight? I started thinking about these things and I came up with an answer in the form of a question.

To what end?

Would fighting him make me more of a man? Would fighting him make him change his attitude towards the US? Is getting myself all worked up just because some ignorant jerk thinks that I personally am responsible for all his problems? What good would come of it? (Alright, so he may have deserved a solid left hook for spitting... but he missed me, so I can let that slide... this time.)

I can tell you that I believe I am more of a man for recognizing a fight not worth fighting. His views of the US would have remained unchanged. There was no use letting someone like that get to me... I have more self-confidence than that. I know that I haven't done anything wrong. I reckon no good would come of bloody knuckles and a dead body I would have to hide.

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It has now been two days. I deliberately decided to wait and complete this entry after I had some time to think. And this is what I think:

The night this happened, I told Mike that I think the others were more upset by what happened than I was. Now I know that isn't true. One might say it hadn't sunken in yet. But the severity of what happened is painfully clear now.

This was not a insignificant event for me. I know that I will remember it for the rest of my life. I woke up the next day, after already having wrote the first half of this blog, and I felt as though I had been crying in my sleep. My face wasn't wet or anything, but my body felt heavy and hollow. I went on about my day as normal. I answered 'I'm fine' to whose who questioned how I was. I pretended to disregard what had happened as though it wasn't really a big deal. I don't know why I did this, but, I guess, I didn't want people to talk to me as if I were hurt... I didn't want to show that I let it - that I let him - affect me so much. I didn't want to be pitied.

The truth is that I haven't stopped thinking about it for the past two days. I have had small conversations regarding it, and, again, brushed it off. I spoke with my parents and my brother (through the wonder of the internet) and they have all reassured me that what I did was correct. They are all proud that I made the decision to not fight him. That made me feel so good.

But there's this part of me, this other part, that wishes that I had become violent with him. I would like to think that what I did was right... but that part of me feels like retaliation - revenge - was the path I should have taken. My rational mind knows that this isn't true. I know that what I wrote that day was correct and that no good would come from fighting. I know that I am the better person... but then why do I feel like I lost in a fight? I tell myself that if he had gotten physical with me or anyone at the table, it would be an entirely different story. That THEN I would have done something. But I'll never know for sure.

I also think about what would happen if I were to see him again. Half of me says that I would ask him to sit down and talk to me... to ask him why he did it and if he felt better, or more like a man, after doing so. To have a conversation with him and tell him that I, a twenty-three year old guy who had never stepped foot in the Middle East, was the one he spit on, not the country he hated so much. I like to believe that he would listen and be open to talking about it and teach me something. (I'm sure that's just the optimist in me.)

The other side of me says that I should walk around with a baseball bat until I find him and blind-side him the first chance I get. It tells me not to stop until he's paralyzed from the waist down. I do my best to suppress these thoughts, but, in a way, I feel like it would be just.

I have been thinking about what happened in his life that filled him with such rage. I think about if I had seen and heard and felt the same things he did, if I would harbor the same angst and hatred towards the United States. This I think of least of all.

All of these things I think about, and have been thinking about, even now. I wish I didn't have to go through such an experience. I wish I didn't feel so frustrated with the way things are. I tell myself that I will come out of all this a better person. Life is about sinking or swimming, and I've got one hell of a backstroke. But right now, at this very moment, I feel wretched and cold.

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