Originally published in The Newnan Times-Herald, read here.
It was 1978, and NBC promoted its airing of King Kong, starring Jeff Bridges and Jessica Lange.
I was 9 years old and could not contain my excitement because my mom and dad told me I could watch it. This was going to be a special night. My mom and dad were going on a date night, and my dad agreed to move our one and only TV into my bedroom so I could watch the movie without the sitter.
I spent all afternoon preparing my personal movie theater. I had snacks, blankets, pillows — the works.
The time came for my parents to leave. Afterward, I disappeared into my bedroom, shut the door and turned the TV on. No sooner had I settled in than the sitter opened my door and asked what I was doing. “Watching a movie,” with a smirk on my face. Oh yeah, she quipped, “What movie?” I turned to look at her, studied her face for a moment, “King Kong.” She did not hesitate, swings open the door, marching to the TV, and turning it off. She turned to me, pointing her bony finger, saying, “We don’t watch movies like that.” Then she turned to walk out of the room. I was stunned, frozen, wondering what to do. I had permission.
“You can’t do that; my dad said I could.” She turned in the doorway and said, “Well, he’s not here and did not tell me, and you need to come in here where I am.” I had a 9-year-old rage as I began to walk toward the door. My mind was already calculating a response. As she turned to walk down the hallway, the anger took over, and I saw the opportunity. I slammed the door behind her and locked it.
She was banging on the door, yelling for it to be opened immediately. It was so loud, and as my actions began to sink in, I made up my mind that she’s not coming into my room.
Moments later, she was pushing a pin into the small hole to unlock my door. I panicked, pulling my bed away from the wall, then pushing it up against the door. At the same time, I heard the lock open, and she began to push. Opening the door just far enough, her head could fit through. The enemy was about to breach my castle, and I had to respond. Scanning my room, looking at her red face, then back again, I panicked. Then, sitting on the floor was my dad’s portable radio; that’s it, this will save me.
Falling to my knees, I flipped the radio over, opening the battery compartment, then shook the radio as the D-Batteries fell in front of me. Her shoulder was against the door now as she began to leverage against the bed.
I stood, one D battery in each hand. Without warning, I fired the first shot, missing my mark, leaving a dent in the wooden door. We both froze, staring at each other, both of us in shock at the moment. I broke the silence, “You’re not coming into my room.” Her response was to push again, and I fired another shot, this one whizzing over her head into the hallway, making a huge impact noise. Silence again, this time I think she realized, I am not going to miss a third time, as she turned and walked away.
I ran over to the door, shutting it, relocking and pushing my bed back to barricade myself in. I had everything I needed; I just hoped I did not have to go to the bathroom.
I watched my movie, and she never came back to the door. Eventually, my mom and dad came home, and I could hear them talking, but I never came out before the sitter left. I may have won the battle, but I did not win the war.
I’ll bet you never thought about the power of D batteries like that.
That night has always stayed with me. Not because of the movie… but because of what I was willing to do once I believed I was right. I had permission.
And somehow, that permission turned into justification.
And justification … is powerful.
It can make a 9-year-old boy feel like he’s defending a castle.
It can make us raise our voices, draw lines and even take shots we never intended to take.
We see it every day.
In our homes.
In our relationships.
In the things we choose to defend.
The real question isn’t what we’ve been given the authority to protect … but what we’ve convinced ourselves we’re justified in doing to protect it.
Because sometimes the most dangerous thing isn’t being wrong …
It’s being absolutely certain you’re right.
I’ll leave you with that until next time.
