The Choice

“Yes.”
“Now I want you to yell at him.”
“Yell how?”
“I want you to tell him how angry you are.”
“I don’t know what to say.”
“Say, ‘Dad, I’m so angry at you for not protecting me!’ But don’t say
it. Yell it!” I demonstrated.
“Dad, I’m so angry at you,” she said.
“Louder.”
“Dad, I’m so angry at you!”
“Now I want you to punch him.”
“Where?”
“Right in the face.”
She raised a fist and swatted the air.
“Punch him again.”
She did it.
“Now kick.”
Her foot flew up.
“Here’s a pillow. You can punch this. Really whack it.” I handed
her a cushion.
She opened her eyes and stared at the pillow. Her punches were
timid at ĕrst, but the more I encouraged her, the stronger they
became. I invited her to stand up and kick the pillow if she wanted to.
To throw it across the room. To scream at the top of her lungs. Soon
she was down on the Ęoor, pounding on the pillow with her ĕsts.
When her body began to fatigue, she stopped punching and collapsed
on the floor, breathing fast.
“How do you feel?” I asked her.
“Like I don’t ever want to stop.”
e following week I brought in a punching bag, a red one on a
heavy black stand. We established a new ritual—we’d begin our