I’ve only broken a man’s nose twice in my life. The first time was an accident. The second time was just to make sure I could still do it.

I don’t break noses anymore. Even when I needed to fight and kick and push my way out, I stay clear of the face. Sometimes it’s empathy. Most of the time not.

It’s not empathy that stops me more than the fear of making a scene. There are theories that men are more prone to violence than women because they are taught that violence is awesome where women are taught that violence is bad, but I think it’s because men have always been encouraged more to make a scene, to be big, to stand out, to yell and scream whilst women are taught to smile small and duck.

The first time I broke a man’s nose it was accidental. He kept trying to take my hat off my head, and all I saw out of the corner of my eyes was his big head coming towards mine, so to protect myself I put out my hand to push his head away and the base of my hand connected with his nose. Blood went splat on the floor as he ran outside bleeding his friend ran inside yelling ‘you broke my friends nose and you don’t even care, do you?’ as I looked down at the blood and tried to make myself feel sorry.

The second time I broke a man’s nose it was just to make sure I could still do it. I was dancing up the front at a gig by myself, and this annoying man kept grabbing me and putting his face next to my face really close asking me to smile, accusing me of not enjoying the band so he could get me to move, and when he kept on going and I just wanted to hear the band so I raised my hand to connect with his nose, and apologized straight away as he ran off like it was an accident, but it wasn’t an accident, and I wasn’t sorry.

And I always could claim the men’s excuse that ‘I was just so bloody wasted’, but even if I was stone cold sober I still wouldn’t be sorry.

I’m only sorry for the noses that I didn’t break. Like that time I was standing by myself outside the gig in a black flag shirt just to breath some fresh air, and some guy came up to me to ask me if I wanted to see his white flag so I said ‘what do you mean surrender’ even though that’s not what he meant at all. I think he was referring to his penis but if his penis is a flag then what the hell are my blood-stained undies with new hearts and flowers every month if not a flag then a war cry. Any how to recover his pride he tried to get me to move and not stand there, alone, in the streets, after dark but I stood there staring at the cement where the blood from his nose would splatter, and if I broke his nose, and every mans nose who tried to get me to move when I was standing alone on the streets in the dark, and broke the nose of every hippy who told me that my empathy was my strength, as they took more than they gave,

then maybe all the blood would splatter and trickle down into the gutter and meet up with the river of blood from my raped and murdered sisters, maybe then we could truly be one blood. Brother.