The only time I can think of that I acted violently (as opposed to reacting in self-defense) was when I was about 10 years old. As the only girl in the neighborhood (it was semi-rural -- neighborhood meant about a 1 mile radious), I was often hard pressed to be included; when I was, it was always as my 'brother's little sister' and I was at the very bottom of the pecking order.

So one day, we were playing baseball. I was, of course, relegated to the outfield, where "playing" meant standing there all day long. Also in the outfield was Clifford, who was the bottom boy in the pecking order. He was 2 or 3 years older and a bit bigger. He was being obnoxous and yelling taunts at they other players, and I told him to shut up.

He said, "Come over here and make me!"

I'm not 100% clear on what happened next, but my brother told me I threw down my glove, calmly walked over and punched him in the mouth and gave him a bloody lip. When I opened my eyes, my brother had the most astounded look on his face, the boys were all trying to see what happened, Clifford was crying and covering his mouth, and then he ran for home. I never saw him again.

There are all sorts of interesting ideas that could have led up to that act of aggression. Was I venting my race on the weakest possible target? Was I trying to establish a better place in the pecking order? Or did I just lose control?

Well, I always played shortstop after that.