Do Not Be the Aggressor

Do Not Be the Aggressor

By Kateb Nuri-Alim Shunnar

I’ve seen it enough times to know: being the aggressor don’t do nobody any favors, least of all yourself. It’s like chewing on a piece of sandpaper might feel satisfying for a moment, but it tears you up from the inside. I’ve never been that person, thank God, but I’ve been around folks who were. Honey, they carried a monkey on their back bigger than the ones at Audubon Zoo. Bad energy sticks to ‘em like a wet Mardi Gras mask, and no matter how much they try to convince themselves they’re winning, life stays sour.

I’ve had folks try to rope me into it. “Kateb, I’d do this, I’d do that. You gotta show ‘em who’s boss.” Bless their hearts. They meant well, but they were handing me their own heavy load of bitterness. I smiled, nodded, and kept my mouth shut. I’d learned something early on: patience and prayer work better than clout and claws.

Aggression might feel powerful at first. That rush, that spike of adrenaline makes you think, “Yeah, I’m in control now.” But it’s a trap. That power is fleeting. The aftermath? That’s the real test. Physically, mentally, emotionally, and spiritually, it eats you alive. It damages relationships, isolates you, and messes with your sleep. It gives folks around you anxiety and hurt feelings. And if you’re lucky, it leaves you with a bad reputation that follows you longer than gum stuck to a streetcar seat. And let’s be honest, nobody wants that.

People don’t know how much you know until you show how much you care. That lesson is tucked in every interaction, every conversation, and every argument I choose not to have. I’ve watched friends, family, even strangers let aggression drive them. What do they get? Smoke and mirrors pretending to be victory, but inside, they’re hollow.

It reminds me of a story my grandmother told me one that smells like wet cypress and fried catfish, tastes like red beans simmering all afternoon. It’s about two men down in the bayou: Beauregard “Bo” Vieux and Clement Doux. Their names mean something, too Beauregard, “handsome gaze,” proud of his presence; Clement, “gentle sweetness,” calm as the morning fog rolling over Lake Pontchartrain.

Bo Vieux strutted around like he owned every patch of levee, dock, and alley in New Orleans. Loud laugh, heavy boots, chest puffed out like a rooster at dawn the kind of man who thought showing teeth was the same as showing strength. He believed that if he made enough noise, pushed enough people down, and struck first, he’d never be stepped on. Classic trap.

Clement Doux, on the other hand, lived at the edge of the bayou in a little shack that leaned more than a little, with a boat so small it looked like it might sink under a strong breeze. Clement wasn’t flashy. Didn’t need to be. He spoke to the water, the trees, the frogs, even the gators all in quiet, respectful tones. Folks laughed at him. “What good is talking to a frog, Clem?” they’d ask. And Clement would wink. “Better than yelling at folks, that’s for sure.”

One summer evening, Bo had a bad day on the water. No fish, no luck, pride simmering hotter than a pot of jambalaya. Then he heard Clement had caught a record-size catfish. Envy got in his blood, and next thing you know, Bo’s stomping to Clement’s dock like a hurricane with boots.

“You think you better than me, Clement? You stealing my spots!” Bo bellowed.

Clement looked up from his net, calm as moonlight. “Bo, the bayou don’t belong to nobody. Least of all me.”

Bo’s face turned redder than a Mardi Gras float. “You hiding something! I seen you whispering to the water, acting like some kinda swamp priest!”

Clement chuckled softly. “I ain’t hiding nothing. Just talking to the Lord and the bayou. You might try it sometime.”

Bo scoffed and tossed a rock into the water. “I’m leaving if you don’t answer me straight!”

Now here’s the part that makes folks laugh whenever they tell it. Bo’s so worked up, stomping, yelling, forgetting gravity exists, his boot slips on the wet dock. He goes headfirst into a gator nest. Yes, a gator nest. Folks, I’m not making this up. Gators scattered, Bo screamed, and Clement, calm as a Sunday sermon, reaches in and drags him out scratches his arm, sure, but doesn’t flinch.

“You crazy man! Why’d you save me after all I done?” Bo wheezed.

Clement shook his head. “Because peace don’t need a reason, Bo. Aggression does. That’s why you almost got yourself eaten.”

Bo never forgot that night. Word is, he stopped shouting at market folks, started helping Clement mend nets, and learned to sit and listen to the water instead of his own anger. Some say the bayou looked brighter after that not that it cares, but folks like to say it anyway.

The moral? Strength comes from calm, patience, and faith not fists and fury. Very few people live by faith. Very few people walk by faith. Most folks want the world to see their fire instead of feeling the Creator’s. But trust me, faith carries farther than aggression ever could.

I’ve had folks try to push me into fighting. “Stand your ground!” they’d say. “Don’t let nobody push you around.” And I’d smile, thinking, Lord, thank You for patience, ‘cause this one’s about to get an earful if I react. But instead, I’d pray, breathe, and sometimes walk away, letting the energy pass me like smoke from a zydeco festival.

Walking by faith is funny sometimes. There’s nothing like standing in the kitchen watching red beans simmer all afternoon, listening to your neighbor argue about something dumb, knowing full well you don’t need to raise your voice because the beans gonna be ready when the beans gonna be ready. And honey, when that pot finally whistles and you stir it up, heaven tastes a little closer.

Humor is a weapon, too, if you pay attention. Life will throw ridiculous moments at you like Bo Vieux in the gator nest and if you’re still busy being the aggressor, you won’t see the joke. You’ll miss the absurdity that makes the pain lighter, the lessons stick, and the heart grow wiser. Life’s too short to be serious all the time. Even God has a sense of humor look at New Orleans during Mardi Gras.

Peace isn’t passive. It’s active. A choice you make every day to rise above anger, show compassion, walk by faith, and pray like your spirit depends on it ‘cause it does. Aggressors build their own prisons one outburst at a time. They lock themselves in cycles of guilt, regret, and pride while peace waits just outside the door, whispering, “I’m still here.”

Being the aggressor is exhausting. You carry that fire, it gnaws at your sleep, makes your heart race over things that don’t matter, and eventually, it makes you lonely. Folks avoid you. Friends drift. People gossip and honestly, who wants that? Not me. I’ll take the porch swing, a cold glass of sweet tea, and quiet conversation over that any day.

Let me tell you standing your ground without aggression is hilarious sometimes. Folks get all worked up watching you stay calm. They can’t believe you don’t jump. And when you do something kind instead, like lending a hand or sharing some red beans, they’re shocked. That’s when you realize: people don’t know how much you know until you show how much you care.

So again, don’t be the aggressor. Hold your peace. Pray. Walk by faith. Show how much you care. Sit on the porch, watch the red beans simmer, and let the world have its chaos while you keep your soul clean. It’s harder, sure, but it’s sweeter than any victory that comes from shouting.

Because at the end of the day, the only person who wins by being the aggressor is the devil. And I, for one, prefer my victories served slow, with patience, a sprinkle of humor, and a little bayou wisdom.

Walk by faith. Love without showboating. Laugh when life gets messy. And when those red beans are done? Sit down, savor ‘em, and thank the Creator. Peace tastes better than revenge ever will.

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