I went home one night and told my dad that an older kid was

Host: The night sat heavy over the street, the air thick with warmth and the faint smell of tire rubber and distant traffic. A single porch lamp buzzed, its light trembling across peeling paint and an old stoop where two shadows had grown used to sitting. Crickets hummed like a tired audience, and the city breathed, patient and small.

Jack sat on the step, his coat folded, his jaw set, a small bottle sweating at his side. Jeeny leaned on the railing, her hands warm on the cool wood, her eyes watching the street as if it might speak. Between them a paper scrap rested, the words printed crisp and unadorned:
“I went home one night and told my dad that an older kid was picking on me. My Dad, a Korean War vet and a Chicago cop for 30 years, told me, 'You better pick up a brick and hit him in the head.' That's when I thought, 'Wow, I'm going to have to start dealing with things in a different way.'” — Steve Wilkos.

Jeeny: “It’s a hard line, isn’t it? A father teaching brute force as a solution. I can hear the love under the order, but the method… it frightens me.”

Jack: “Love often wears armor, Jeeny. His dad lived in war, then in the streets. He learned the world answered with force, so he gave his son a tool he trusted.”

Host: The porch light stuttered, throwing the two faces into half shadow. A car passed, its headlights streaking like a knife across the pavement. Jack’s voice was calm, but his fingers drummed a slow count on the step.

Jeeny: “But what does a child learn when the first lesson is a brick? That life is a contest of damage? That fear must be answered with harm? I worry the lesson stays longer than the intent.”

Jack: “Or he learns to stand up. There’s a world that takes from those who hesitate. Sometimes survival is simple — be hard enough that the world moves around you.”

Host: Wind pushed through the alley, stirring a heap of newspaper, and for a moment the sound filled the space like a drum. Jeeny pressed her palm to her chest, as if to still the beat there.

Jeeny: “But the brick is a beginning, not an answer. Violence teaches patterns — fight, shrink, retaliate. It builds walls where trust should grow. How do you raise a man who knows when to use his hands and when to open them?”

Jack: “You teach both. You teach strength and restraint. But the first lesson matters when a boy is bloodied and afraid. A word or a lecture might not stop the next punch.”

Host: The argument tightened, turning like gears. The street seemed to lean in, the night listening as if it, too, debated.

Jeeny: “So the world is a threat and your father’s method is the only practical one? That’s a dangerous equation. Because the outcome of that practicality is a cycle: bricks, retaliation, more bricks.”

Jack: “What else are you supposed to do when your son comes home with a black eye? Call the counselor? Tell him to smile and walk away? Sometimes the world answers to force.”

Host: Jeeny’s eyes flashed, a small light like flint. She stepped down from the railing until she stood beside Jack, their shoulders nearly touching.

Jeeny: “I’m not saying we do nothing. I’m saying we teach context. You show the boy how to defend, yes — but you teach him the cost of violence. You teach him to choose when not to hurt. That’s a different kind of strength.”

Jack: “You want to explain the cost to a kid whose teeth got kicked in? That’s not always the language he understands.”

Host: For a few breaths the porch was quiet. The lamp trembled, and somewhere in the dark, a sirens faded then died. Jack’s tone softened, a thin crack showing in his armor.

Jack: “My old man fought in a war. He saw people die for small things. After that, compassion looked like luxury. He wanted his son to know how to survive.”

Jeeny: “And your father was right — survival is real. But what we survive shapes the world we build. If every answer is a brick, then society becomes a pile of broken things.”

Host: The conversation shifted — from defense to history, from instruction to inheritance. Each word carried weight like a small stone.

Jeeny: “Have you thought how a son might carry that advice into his own relationships? How he teaches his children? That’s the real price — the lessons that multiply.”

Jack: “I did. I didn’t like what I saw in some of my friends. Men who hit before they talk, who believe fear is respect. But I also saw men who used force to protect and later wore it like a wound — always tender, always raw.”

Host: The night deepened, the lamp now a small island in a sea of black. Their voices lowered — argument moving toward memory.

Jeeny: “Maybe the difference is teaching choice as a skill. Tell him to pick up a brick, yes — but then teach him to put the brick down, too. Show him how to stand between fear and revenge, how to make a decision that’s not automatic.”

Jack: “That’s fair. But life doesn’t always give you the calm classroom to practice. Sometimes the door slams, and your hands act.”

Host: Their debate entered a second round, heat softening into honesty. The porch light stared at them like a witness.

Jeeny: “Then the duty of a parent is to prepare a child for violent moments without glorifying them. To speak about the future consequence, to teach self-respect, to practice escape routes, to teach words that de-escalate. Force may be a tool, but only one in a box that contains patience, understanding, and courage.”

Jack: “You make it sound neat. I like that. But the world is messy, Jeeny. Men like my father saw the mess and tried to arm their kids with clarity.”

Host: A breeze passed, cool and honest, and Jeeny closed her eyes for a second, tasting memory like salt. She spoke softer now, not to argue, but to offer.

Jeeny: “Maybe we need both kinds of teachers. The one who says ‘pick up a brick’ for immediate danger, and the one who says ‘this is why you put it down’ for the long game. The problem is when only the first teacher speaks.”

Jack: “And the problem is when only the second speaks and the kid gets hurt in the meantime.”

Host: The third round came with more care than heat — their voices weaving into a conversation about inheritance and intent.

Jeeny: “You once told me you hit back when you were young. Did it make you stronger?”

Jack: “At the time, yes. Later, I learned it made me smaller in certain ways. I built walls I had to chip down. Those walls kept people out when I didn’t want them out.”

Jeeny: “So the lesson is not that the brick is evil, but that it’s a heavy thing to carry. Teach the strength to lift it, and the wisdom to set it down.”

Jack: “That’s the truth I can live with.”

Host: The lamp flicked once, as if to bless their agreement, then settled into a steady glow. The street seemed to exhale.

Jeeny: “And teach other tools — voice, law, community. Teach the value of asking for help, the power of telling authority, the strength of walking away when walking away is the bravest thing to do.”

Jack: “Alright. Teach the box. Pack bricks, words, routes, and rules. Let kids know the cost of every choice.”

Host: They both smiled, small and tired, like two people who had argued their way to the same bedrock. The porch lamp cast their shadows long across the step — not separate, but entangled.

Jeeny: “In the end, it’s a father trying to keep his son from being hurt in the only language he knows. It’s messy, but it’s human.”

Jack: “And it’s our job to turn those messy lessons into teaching rather than habits.”

Host: The night held them a little longer, listening like a kindly judge. A neighbor’s light blinked, and the world around them moved on — noisy, stubborn, full of consequence.

They stood, and without grand gestures, each knew what the other meant: that violence can be a tool, but never the whole of education; that love can sound like orders when fear shapes it; and that the true work of parenthood is to teach how to survive and how to become less likely to need survival.

In the soft light, they set the paper down, a quiet monument to a lesson that was at once old and new: pick up the brick if you must, but learn why, when, and how to put it down.