I teach and choreograph stage violence—kicks, punches, falls, rudimentary wrestling and judo, sword fighting through the ages, the occasional beheading, nose- and hair-pulling, and slaps— and have done so professionally for 35 years, sometimes with students as young as 14. I’m a hit with young actors. As we begin a workshop, I tell them I’m going to touch them, that I might put my hands on their shoulders to position them, or gently kick their foot so they assume a broader stance. They know, coming in, that there will be physical contact, but I always introduce my methods. Actors are allowed to opt out of any exercise. However, what I rarely see among young actors is peer pressure to perform. I see hesitation; I see enthusiasm. I see encouraging teachers who are often the first line of defense for young people navigating the issues of their age: bullying, questions of gender and sexuality, family violence, peer relationships, identity. The theater, perhaps more than any classroom, is where many students first test their willingness to walk in someone else’s shoes. Initially, the work of stage combat happens in a moral void: a punch without reason, slipping on a banana peel, slamming a head on a table. Fun stuff, if you ask the attendees. Lots of laughter, awkwardness, and learning to control movement. When a student lands a perfectly placed (and mimed) face-kick and the victim’s reaction sells the violence, I praise them. “That’s wonderful!” Everyone laughs because, let’s face it, violence can be hilarious. And harmless. Think Home Alone. Young people are so steeped in the myths and romance of violence that most of them don’t know what the real thing is. For that, I’m thankful. Of course, I have to think: What the hell am I teaching?