When Strength Looks Like Threat

Last night, I went on a hike on the UW–Madison campus with a dear friend who was in town. When it was over, we parted ways and I started driving home. I was on a main road, not too far from campus, stopped at a light, minding my own business, when another car pulled up next to me. Some kid, couldn’t have been older than 23, was driving, and there was someone in the passenger seat that I couldn’t see. Almost immediately, this individual gave me the thousand-yard stare and acted like he was going to get out of his car, without actually opening his door. He kept it up for several minutes while I stared back, fantasizing about all the possible things I could do to this kid.

For those of you who don’t know me, I grew up in the hood. I spent 23 years of my life as an amateur boxer, three and a half years as a police officer, and almost two years as a correctional officer. So I know how to handle myself. It’s served me in the past, and I’m sure it will in the future. Not that I’ve won every single fight. I’ve lost many, inside and outside of the ring, but I’ve always gone down swinging. Losing a fight is humbling. It teaches you there is someone out there putting in more work. My motto used to be, “If you’re going to put your hands on me, you’d better make sure you kill me, because I’ll just keep coming back for more.” But that’s for later in this piece.

As I stared at the kid, I took off my seatbelt, opened the door, got out, and just stood there, begging him with my eyes to give me the excuse. It was clear he wasn’t expecting this from some 42-year-old who looks like a banker (I am a banker). As the light turned green and he got ready to move, I got back in the car and blew him a kiss. Just insult to injury. Something to say, “Pick your fights wisely, my friend.”

About two years ago, I was working at my last financial institution. I was a teller then, at the counter. A man about my age stepped up and said he wanted to close one of his accounts and transfer the funds to another he had with us.

I said, “Of course, not a problem.”

My then-manager was within earshot and always ready to lend support. I’d done this procedure many times, but I think he thought it was new to me and wanted to help. The assistance was appreciated.

While I filled out the tickets and worked on my screen, there was a back-and-forth between my manager and the customer. The customer had an attitude and right away said he did not want to discuss why he was closing his account, which was fine. I handed him the ticket to sign for the transfer and he said it was incorrect. It was five dollars short of what he had originally deposited.

My manager looked into it and said, “You incurred a fee while the account was open, but I’m happy to refund it.”

Before he could finish, the customer snapped, “Shut up.” He launched into how awful his experience had been and what a terrible institution we were, and then—because he couldn’t help himself—he called my boss chunky.

My boss stayed calm. “Yes, I could stand to lose some weight.”

It looked like my boss had it under control; however, my face probably said otherwise. I tend to have what’s known as RBF—resting bitch face—which just invites confrontations. The customer looked at me, then at my name tag.

“Nader, I don’t appreciate the way you’re looking at me.”

“Well, I don’t appreciate the way you’re talking to my boss.”

He chuckled. “One of these days we’re going to have to meet outside of here.”

You would have thought he just gave me a large birthday cake with a stripper and a million dollars.

“Well, today is your lucky day.”

I began to take off my watch, my name tag, and my badge. I started around the counter toward the exit.

My boss stepped in front of me. “It’s not worth it.”

After five seconds of thinking, I knew I didn’t want to blemish my boss’s record. I went to the back and kicked the vault a few times. That was the end of that.

About five years ago, I was involved in a road-rage incident where a guy who was driving drunk and full of steroids almost ran into me. He ran me off the road. I got out to face him. Not that I would have called the police, but my phone was dead. He turned out to be a bodybuilder who had been illegally using human growth hormone and testosterone. He got in my face. He wasn’t making much sense.

I said, “If you leave now, I won’t call the police.”

He punched me in the face, which was the biggest favor he could have done because it woke me up. He loaded up for another punch, and I landed a beautiful combination that dropped him.

His hoodie fell open and I saw the gun in his holster. He started reaching for it and I jumped on top of him, punching and elbowing to keep him from the gun. He had two guns and five knives on him. I stayed on him like white on rice because I didn’t want to give him any distance to use his weapons. I was hoping a passerby would call the police, which they did, and eventually officers showed up. After they figured out what happened, they uncuffed me, sent him to the hospital and then to jail for the weekend.

One of the officers said, “You’re lucky. That was one dangerous dude.”

“Maybe he’s the lucky one.”

Truth be told, I chalk this one up as self-defense—though yes, I didn’t have to get out of the car.

I’m not telling you these stories to sound like some sort of badass. I’m not Jack Reacher or Denzel Washington. Those men would at least hold themselves accountable and abstain from unnecessary violence. Quite the contrary, I’m at a huge crossroads in my life. Sure, I had a rough upbringing and I’ve studied ways to defend myself. But how does all this reconcile when I’m trying to blend into day-to-day society?

I’ve been in banking for three years. I’m currently a personal banker and I’m looking to move to a larger financial institution that would mean more responsibility and, yes, more money. But I also have to make sure I can represent that institution—and the one I currently work for—with positive values. I don’t think they will look kindly on street fighting.

Furthermore, I just met an amazing woman. I’d been off dating for almost two years so I could work on myself, but I decided to jump back in. I didn’t think I’d actually meet anyone so soon, much less someone like her. She teaches music at a high school. She sings, plays various instruments, performs in the local orchestra, and teaches a youth orchestra. She is kind, sweet, loving, and incredibly smart. I was nervous going into our first date (I don’t get nervous on dates) because she’s so talented and I’m basically a jock who punches people. But somehow, we clicked. We’ve been talking every night since, and we already have plans for the weekend. I’m going to see her play at the opera.

I’ve written in the past about Lt. Col. Dave Grossman and how he separates people in society as sheep, sheepdogs, or wolves, depending on their traits. For the longest time, I considered myself a sheepdog, a protector of the innocent, a law enforcement officer, and a proud one—albeit for a short period. But does this mean I’ve gone to the other side? That I am a wolf? He does say many civilians—your average Joe—will commonly mistake the sheepdog for the wolf. Why? Because we look similar, because sometimes we have to fight, because sometimes we have to show our fangs. So, does that justify the actions I mentioned earlier? Many courts and juries would say it does not.

Again the question arises: how does someone with my past adjust to living in modern-day society? It’s not that I have an anger-management problem. I didn’t hold on to last night’s incident and it didn’t keep me from sleeping. It’s that I grew up living by a certain code: you don’t pick a fight with someone who loves to fight. It won’t end well. I react quickly to certain situations.

To better explain it, I feel like I’ve been institutionalized. I heard that term a lot and studied it while I worked in the Department of Corrections. For those who don’t know, I grew up in a pretty violent border town in Texas, riddled with gangs and cartels. I had to fight my way home every day through gang territory. I had to stand my ground at school. I had the option of being a shark or a minnow, and I was not going to be a minnow. I guess my upbringing in the hood and facing gangs every day was my institutionalization.

How can I avoid this if I get that job I want? What will she and her family think if something happens and I get in trouble? Sometimes I wish I were just a lab geek like my cousin, who never gets in trouble, does what his wife tells him, and walks around with a pocket protector. Life would be so much simpler.

So, does this mean I am an outcast? Will I be that old guy at 70 still taking on younger guys on the bus? Am I an outcast?

Only time will tell.

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Nader Gamez grew up with a mix of influences. He calls himself “basically a Chicago street thug blended with a border-town Texican and a dash of Madison Midwesterner.” He earned a BA in International Studies from the University of Wisconsin–Madison, with a minor in drinking.

Since then, he has worked in law enforcement and corrections with the Dane County Sheriff’s Office, the Waukesha Police Department, the Wisconsin Department of Corrections, the Wisconsin Department of Health Services, and Mendota Mental Health Institute. He has also competed in amateur boxing and played with local rugby clubs.

As the Voice of the Veteran Community, The Havok Journal seeks to publish a variety of perspectives on a number of sensitive subjects. Unless specifically noted otherwise, nothing we publish is an official point of view of The Havok Journal or any part of the U.S. government.