I’ve since had the television removed, but having it for a time did make me wonder how bad childhood was before soaps and action-drama. For thousands of years, without this glowing window into others’ lives, children must have felt their home environments were completely normal. Now, parents can no longer indulge their delusions between the front and back doors.

As a boy in Wales, I wanted my life to be like The A-Team. I wanted it to be like Knight Rider. But it wasn’t like Knight Rider. Nor was it like Dallas or Falcon Crest.

My life was walking to school worried my socks were too red. One morning, as I neared the grassy knoll before the busy road I had practiced crossing with my father over and over, I heard my name in the mouth of another boy. I turned and there he was, barreling toward me, lips curled back to reveal a mad riddle of teeth. It seemed he was cupping something precious in his loosely clenched fists, something he was determined to share with me. What was it? A butterfly wing? Pincers from a stag beetle? A 1970s soda can ring pull? World War II aircraft bullet casing? (Chris Page once found three by the BMX track along with a porno mag in the hedge.)

But then the red-faced boy was spitting words over bared incisors: Paki! Wog! Paki bastard!

I would hear these often growing up. They’re woven into the fabric of my life, part of our story. I learned to fight but never refute their claim⁠—for if it wasn’t me, it would have been someone, some other small body, some other brown hand like mine that picked up toys and reached for the deep fur of any passing dog.

Those words were most certainly the red-faced boy’s second voice. But I wonder if with first voice, he was saying: Ilovemydad. Ihatemydad. Ilovemydad. Ihatemydad. Helovesme. Mumcriesallnightwiththebathroomdoorlocked. Hercriesdislodgemyinsides. Shelovesdad. Ilovemydad. Tohangon. Tolove. Imusthit. It’snormal. Hastobe. Willfindareason. Skin . . . Body . . . Voice. Anythingtosavemyselfandmum. Anddad. WhoIwillalwayshate. Loving.

As I lie here in this hospital bed, old enough to think I’m not old, I’m starting to wonder if all hate isn’t just the unbearable pain of inexpressible love.

I think the first blow landed in the middle of my forehead. Then I was on my back, his knuckle ramming, grinding my head bone and eye sockets. We were like a single machine in the act of breaking down.

Another digression: Try and imagine somebody at work has dragged you from your cubicle and is beating you next to the photocopy machine; blood runs down your chin; you can taste metal in your mouth; teeth wobble with any pressure from the tongue.

Everyone in the office is watching this⁠—even people you like. Some are not just watching but laughing.