The second time, I got mad and shook my fist in his face and told him if he ever did it again, I'd flatten him. He was a skinny young Black kid from East Waterloo, and his momma must have said something similar to him, as he backed off and didn't repeat.
What I don't get is the men standing back, letting me handle it. Expecting me to, long before I'd ever shown any "colors".
I've always considered myself "nonviolent", but there I was, shaking. From the outside, it probably looked like a fear reaction. But on the inside? On the inside, I was angry. I was furious. I was close to a berserker rage. Who knew? Certainly not me, prior to that second incident.