Shove

I stood on the stage with a grad student actor, the director dim in the empty space, straggling actors watching, or not. She paced and smoked beside me, statuesque, expertly made up, be-thonged, potent. She shoved me. I backed up, annoyed. She shoved me with both hands, hard, again. I stepped back again, alarmed. She moved to raise her hands again, and I braced, threatened, cornered, immovable. I would not be shoved a third time.

"AH! I knew you had fight in you!" She triumphed.

"Asshole!" I did not say to her.

She explained this was an actor exercise, proving her theory I was only to be pushed so far, then I would fight. That I was strong, despite my apparent deference and shyness. I felt used, manipulated, I never forgot. I knew I was restraining rage. That my inner core was steely fury was a backward compliment.

I thought about my parents, and my brothers today. Of my disinclination to have any contact, any relationship with any of them. They perhaps pushed me once too often, the game grew tiresome to me, pointless. This apathy on my part grows not from anger, but from my enlightened laziness. Any amount of energy into the functional, none into the extraneous and irritating. Much of my decision not to pursue a theatrical path, not wanting to play aimless games. Not for a living.

I never forgot. This was not a surprize to me, that I would retreat and retreat, then bite. I wonder if my resolute decision caught my genetic family blindsided. When I lived there, no attack on my part could have been effective. I bided. Even after all, I did not strike out. No, I shut the door, locked it tight, and walked far, far away. Not playing. Not mad, not anything. The rage has leaked away, over the decades, leaving deep disinterest.

The fight is still strong, but for, no longer against. Not shoving back, nor falling for artificial tests of my character. What others think of me is none of my business. I know what I am.