Understanding the Roots of Violence

From generation to generation, young boys in America are often nurtured in an environment steeped in violence.

At the age of ten, I was perfectly suited for pee-wee football. My grandmother called my sturdy build “big-boned,” while my peers referred to it as “fat.” On the football field, this physique transformed into a force that was “hard to tackle.” My low center of gravity — evidenced by my not-so-impressive height marked on the doorframe — made coaches envision shiny trophies and struggling referees signaling touchdowns.

However, I despised the sport. I can still vividly recall the confusion I felt wearing a helmet that was far too large for my head. Standing alongside the quarterback, I received my assignment.

“Take the ball and run like the wind, son,” instructed my coach, a wiry, blue-collar man who resembled a whistle-wielding Clint Eastwood.

My first attempt was a disaster. I dropped the ball, eliciting a shout from the sidelines as it fell between my feet. The second try yielded better results, but when a fellow 5th grader barreled into me, it wasn’t the impact that shocked me; it was the realization that I simply didn’t enjoy being tackled.

I endured that season as if serving a sentence. Each practice, my coach prowled the field, unleashing a string of PG-13 curses to motivate us into more push-ups and longer sprints. The drills felt more like Sisyphean tasks than anything resembling fun.

Every Thursday night, as I indulged in homemade English muffin pizzas — the only redeeming aspect of those evenings — a switch in my mind would flick off. I couldn’t recall a single game, only fleeting sensations: the weight of my pads, the sweat dripping down, the whistle's sharpness, the feel of the mouthguard, and the breathlessness after hitting the ground. But what stuck with me was a nagging sense that something was fundamentally wrong. I was supposed to relish this experience. I should have been ecstatic to take down my friends, to celebrate the impact of a tackle, to embrace the chaos of the game.

I was expected to embody violence.

The media I consumed only intensified my confusion. Clint Eastwood, who would later be etched in my memory as my pee-wee coach, starred in numerous 1970s westerns that showcased a ruthless anti-hero. These films, known as “spaghetti westerns,” portrayed Eastwood's characters as heartless and indifferent to the violence they inflicted.

Every time I watched those films, I grappled with a dissonance I couldn’t quite resolve. The chasm between the person I saw in the mirror and the exaggerated masculine figure on screen was vast. I felt a strange compassion for the victims in those films, questioning why I should care for the weak instead of reveling in the aggression displayed.

The archetype of the violent hero has persisted for millennia, from ancient epics to contemporary action films featuring muscle-bound stars like Arnold Schwarzenegger and Sylvester Stallone. Yet, in my mind, Eastwood’s characters embodied everything unsettling about violent masculinity.

My cherished Saturday morning cartoon was The X-Men, a series about mutant superheroes, each equipped with unique powers meant to harm. Cyclops shot destructive beams from his eyes, while Wolverine wielded indestructible claws. They were celebrated for their abilities to inflict pain.

Violence was also a staple in my video games, especially fighting genres like Street Fighter and Mortal Kombat. We would engage in virtual battles, relishing the rush of combat. However, when a match concluded in Mortal Kombat, the victor had the option to execute a “fatality,” a gruesome finishing move. I took pleasure in these moments, masking any unease.

Our interactions with violence were almost playful. Before reaching puberty, we dared each other to watch graphic horror films, pushing the limits of our discomfort. We patrolled our social environment, reinforcing the stoicism expected of us as boys. Weakness was ridiculed, fear was dismissed, and empathy was non-existent.

Reflecting on my childhood, the most unsettling aspect of the violence I encountered was its casualness. It was routine, pervasive, and normalized.

Now, as an adult with a more developed perspective, I question how easily such behavior was justified. Boys physically fighting each other? Just boys being boys. Minor injuries? “Rub some dirt on it.” Lyrics glamorizing violence? Just music. Graphic content across media? As long as there’s no sex involved.

What are the long-term consequences of this relentless exposure to fictional violence? More crucially, why does it elicit so little concern?

While I’m not asserting that playing violent video games will lead to real-world violence, there is a connection between violent media consumption and aggressive behavior, albeit more insidious. A teenager mowing down NPCs in a game might not commit real-life violence, but it could lead him to express hostility in everyday interactions, fostering a mindset of frustration over time.

What’s even more alarming is desensitization. Continuous exposure to violence diminishes our aversion until it becomes normalized. We can watch gruesome scenes in shows like The Walking Dead while enjoying our meals without flinching.

What does it mean for a society that turns a blind eye to violence? When such media is directed at boys, what kind of men does it create? And what happens when those boys have no role models beyond violent figures?

Regrettably, girls are increasingly facing similar challenges. The same problematic media that shaped boys is now being tailored for them, presenting female characters who mirror the stoic, aggressive anti-hero archetype. This shift raises questions about the messages being conveyed to young girls. Will they also experience the dissonance I felt while watching violent narratives?

A shift in perspective is urgently needed. Strength is not synonymous with aggression. It’s easy to harm others. True strength lies in maintaining empathy and compassion in difficult situations, much like the characters in films such as 12 Angry Men and The Shawshank Redemption.

Despite my beliefs, I still find myself drawn to violent films and shows, often feeling indifferent as characters commit heinous acts. The allure of this “fangless cobra” has become a part of my life, leaving me to wonder how it would be to live without it — perhaps better.

Chapter 2: Media and Its Role in Shaping Violence

The first video, "The Lifelong Effects of Adverse Childhood Experiences (ACEs)," delves into how childhood trauma influences long-term mental health and behavior.

The second video, "Violence and Instability," explores the connections between exposure to violence in childhood and the development of aggressive behaviors in adulthood.