My father was the mildest, gentlest man you can imagine. Never raised his voice. He was also disabled since childhood and couldn’t do any physical things. His fingers didn’t bend enough for him to close his fist. He never talked about it but everybody knew he was fragile. Of course, you have to understand, it’s me who’s saying he was disabled and fragile. My father never used these words and, I’m sure, didn’t see himself this way.
The only time I saw him get violent is when I was a little kid, and a bunch of teenage boys pushed me around on the playground. My father made them crawl on their knees, kiss my feet, and beg for forgiveness. I don’t know how he did it because these weren’t kids. These were young men who were clearly not disabled. But he was in such a rage that they didn’t stand a chance.