We don't live in a society of black and white. The variables that define us individually are as elusive and sprawling as the electromagnetic spectrum, our intricacies far too subtle to see with only the naked eye and a vague understanding. Laws become rules become suggestions and then we're stuck in the tumult of opinion; this person's "bad," but maybe they were raised that way. This person's "good,", but they still cheat on their spouses.

But there's one rule I just can't mess with. One rule I can't let slide.

You don't hit women.

By now I've learned to broaden what I consider "people in distress," but at the time, it was, shall we say... limited. It was sexist of me, I know, and comes with an obvious double standard, but it's hard to look past, hard to reconcile that women can take care of themselves physically. Emotionally? Intellectually? I know when I'm beaten, but physically? Not so much. I recognize that there are exceptions to the rule, however, it's also a common perspective, every man in the room waiting his turn to play the Hero. This is what happened when it was my turn...

I was at a house party with roughly two dozen guests, the BYOB rule leaving the place littered with half-empty cans and red plastic cups with felt-tipped pen scribe rubbing out from condensation, leaving the names as slurred as the owners would have said them at the time. I'd found purchase in an easy chair placed on the screened in back porch, the conversations between me and my friends flitting between deep, existential mechanisms to jokes about defecation.

My hearing is pretty bad, so I didn't hear the event that had caused everyone to go silent, looking past me in disgust. Given the topics of conversation, the opportunity for disgust had come and gone, at least from what I could tell. Instead, I marinated in the sound of empty awkwardness before two other women stood up and left.

It took several seconds for anyone to react... plenty of time for the culprit to find his footing and shrink off into the pitch night, a victim himself of his alcoholism and what we would find out later was a pretty crippling mental disorder. But I didn't know that. I just knew that someone had hit a girl in my presence and no one acted the way they were supposed to.

Naturally, this ate away at my soul for weeks. "When I find this guy, I'm not going to hit him with a fist, I'm going to backhand him, slap him, then pull him close and demand a carton of Camel Lights. And I'll be smiling Cheshire while I'm doing it." But that moment didn't come.

A month later I found myself sitting at a bar, throwing back shots of bourbon like I was about to go on another deployment to Afghanistan, shot-cigarette-shot-cigarette-shot, basking in the hopelessness and violence I'd come to fashion as a comfort blanket. And then I saw a bit of redemption.

A few bar-seats down, there was a commotion, followed by the sound of meat hitting meat, coupled with wisps of thin, brown hair sent swaying by the strike.

Somewhere deep inside me, a monster jumped for joy.

My time to shine. I stormed up to the man responsible, roaring with vicious intent the question I'd been longing to put to the Villain, before putting him to the metaphorical sword.

"Oh, you like hitting women, motherfucker?!"

And with that, I push the man back a good six feet, knocking him into a table and causing him to lose his balance. I've never been a man of slight stature, so when the would-be Villain regained his footing, he looked at me with surprise, coupled with intimidation and confusion.

I waited with baited breath, my eyes smiling with jungle-madness for the swing that never came. In fact, he hit me with something much harder. This man, a potential victim in the worst way, pointed behind me and made the declaration.

"That's not a woman."

So there I stood in the midst of a crowded bar, having just performed the most ridiculous act of pseudo-bravery and callous oversight I've to this day ever heard of, and I did the only thing I found appropriate. I covered my mouth and laughed, the chuckle coming out more like a Santa Clause chortle than anything else, patted his back and smiled.

"I'm soooooo sorry."

Still laughing, I gestured over to the long-haired sickly bastard looking so shocked and happy that someone had come to his rescue.

"Go for it!"

But by then the bartenders had lodged themselves firmly between the two almost-brawlers, dragging the assailant out while trying to hold back their laughter, the entire time me yelling apologies to the guy. And for the spectacle, I drank for free the rest of the night.

So, to sum up, the world we live in is more varied than the whole of humanity could grasp at once. It is vast in its intricacies, intricate in its vastness, a melting, swirling, biting, scratching, place where darkness and light are intimately related. There is no black and white. The rules are merely suggestions. And if you're ever around me, here's one: Don't. Hit. Women.