You might not know it to look at me, but I used to fight. I like to think I hide it well, having lost, for the most part, my Philly accent, and being able now, for the most part, to manage the fire that triggers the impulse to throw a punch. I look and sound these days pretty much like the college creative-writing professor I am: black-rimmed glasses and Oxfords and g’s at the end of my -ing verbs. Except in certain circles, I refrain from calling men “cuz.” These changes have allowed me the privilege of escaping poverty. To get here, I needed to find someplace to put all the violence I saw as a kid — inside my house and out. I needed to move past the violence in which I took part after my dad left and I became, at thirteen, the “man of the house,” according to my mom. This meant that when the world brought trouble, it was my job to fight it, a duty that surely would have gotten me killed if I hadn’t been able to leave it behind, both physically and mentally.