Sticks and Bones

A nice thing about being a tough old lady GenX’er: We grew up with no bike helmets or knee pads, no organized play dates, no chemicals to manage our feelings, and no elaborate structures to suggest order where there is none.

We didn’t have anxiety. Probably because our parents didn’t pile on back-to-back highly-organized activities where we relied on grownups to mediate our interactions, followed some artificial rules about fairness, then stood in line to get a fake trophy for successfully completing a calendar event before mom and dad took pictures and published them to Facebook while rushing us off to our next appointment. (Wears me out just typing all that.) We had to adapt. Daily. We had huge blocks of time which were entirely our own, and we ran around the neighborhood with friends we’d made all by ourselves. Sometimes a group would splinter off and we’d end up throwing pinecones at each other, but we’d forget all about it tomorrow.

We all took turns deciding what to do next. When someone wanted to make all the decisions, they found themselves alone for a few days until they snapped outta their bullshit. It wasn’t a plan we discussed. It’s simply how things worked when someone was being an asshole. Sometimes we fell off our bikes and hurt ourselves, and guess what? We did the shaky-leg walk home where mom washed it off, slapped a Band-Aid on it, and maybe gave us a popsicle before releasing us back into the wild shouting, ‘be back by dinner time.’ And the thing you did that caused you to fall off your bike, you didn’t do that stupid thing again.

It may all seem Neanderthal to you, but we’re resilient! We know how to make decisions. We figure things out, and sometimes we don’t even need YouTube. We don’t get all up in our feels or need our mommy to wage a jihad on a 3rd-grader because they said something disparaging about us. We ask if they want a Hurtz Donut. (“What’s a Hurtz Donut?” [you punch them in the arm] HURTS, DON’T IT?) I’m not advocating for violence, of course. But I’m strongly in favor of self respect and educating others on your rules of engagement.

It’s clear we not a delicate bunch. We have no special sensitivity to loud noise or chaos or gluten or harsh words and the idiots who use them. So when someone insults you, calls you names, or intentionally tries to cause you pain, you might give one of these a try:

Sticks and Stones

This is by far the oldest and deepest of the practical magics. However, it’s only as strong as you allow it to be. Like Tinkerbell, you really have to believe in it:

Sticks and stones may break my bones,
but words will never hurt me.

People are cruel. They say stupid shit, but it’s only sounds; noise. YOU get to assign the meaning and value. Are those words true? Are they possible instruments of change? Do they serve any purpose other than upsetting you or making you feel small? Probably not. But here we hit a nerve; it’s the reason why sticks-n-stones often fails us when we really need it: We don’t always have time to put this charm in play before the curse has been thrown. Finding and using your guts is hard when there’s already a knife in them.

How do I know? I’ll tell you about Keri Wilson. We went through grade school and junior high together. Often in the same class by some miserable twist of fate. She was the Alpha and Omega Mean Girl; pretty, very well dressed, a quiet, delicate little thing with perfect hair, good at gymnastics – well, everything – the precious center of the A-Group (also known as the universe) and all the boys wanted to marry her. Or at least she thought so. I, on the other hand, was too tall, clunky-chunky (bigger than most of the boys until high school), stick-straight hair except for some unfortunate cowlicks, “very social” (teacher-speak for occasionally loud and disruptive), sporting fashions a la Sears and JCPenney. Keri would do this thing where she’d pretend to be okay with me if her parishioners weren’t around. But as soon as there were witnesses, she’d take slices off me like she was gettin’ paid. We were lined up to go out for recess one day and she was behind me. In her artfully curled pigtails and perfect Keri purr, she said “I used to have some pants like that… My mom gave them to Goodwill.”

There was something like a countdown? happening inside me. A fuse, but not. Hard to explain, but a steadily dimishing timeline; something looming. Luckily, it wasn’t a long march to Thermopylae.

Same day: school’s out and we’re all heading to the busses. Ugh. (Yes, we’re not quite neighbors, but we ride the same bus.) It’s bright May, the sun is out, bus windows are down, and Keri is hanging out one of them, just being Keri. Probably telling her friends I was going to stink up the bus. Instead of boarding, I make a left down the sidewalk. I reach up, grab Keri’s perfect pigtails, and yank her halfway out of the bus. She dangled there for a second, pefect feet kicking the air. Before letting her go, I hissed in her face, ‘you have really crooked teeth.’ (and she did! but in a perfect Keri way.)

There are always some teachers out there minding our exit, so everyone saw my last straw breaking. I was still in the fog of war when Mr. Hopman took my elbow. (My bus was near the front of the line, so there was probably a direct line of sight to the Principal’s office.) We’ve been here a few times, he and I. Usually regarding my… excessively social moments. He was a large, mild man. Very beige, head-to-toe. If he were a food, it’d be chicken pot pie. Fully capable of going tough when necessary, but he was always kind to me. He knew what Keri was about; I wasn’t her only victim.

After he calls my mom to come pick me up, he says, “that’s not the right way to handle her.” Here, he comes out from behind his desk to the ‘mom’ chair next to me. He takes my little 4th-grader hand and tells me that people like Keri sometimes have a bad home life. So they need to feel like they’re better than everyone, and they have no problem tearing others down to do it, yadda boom badda… you know the drill. The thing I hadn’t heard before was this: ‘All the people who don’t like Keri really like YOU, and she hates that. She wants ALL the attention, even if it’s just fear. [hand squeeze] So don’t give it to her. Look at her, laugh, and walk away like she doesn’t matter. Because she doesn’t.’ He put paid on it, suggesting I might even feel sorry for her. “You’ll always be surrounded by real friends and people who love you, while people like her find themselves alone.”

Mr. Hopman was right.

I’d enjoyed a nice music career locally, and recently started my own graphic design agency. I was at a local printer doing a press check for a big project, and Keri comes out from some cubicle to say ‘hey!’ like we were long-lost besties. Said she’d seen me in the paper, and ‘how cool is that!?’ So impressed. Looking down (I’ve got 4-5 inches on her, and have certainly mastered my hair and wardrobe by this point), I realize that being a perfectly adorable 6-, 8-, or 12-year-old doesn’t always translate to grown up appeal. You were my nemesis. The source of all evil in my world. You were a whisper-quiet storm of cruelty and you made me cry SO MUCH. My ultimate villain is an ordinary 30-something woman with fake nails and slightly puffy ankles.

It’s loud in there, and I’m still kind of stunned by this moment I’m having. Oh, shit, she’s saying something about getting lunch…

Gosh, no. I’m super busy.
Oh (disappointed), maybe next week sometime? I’d love to catch up!
Well, like I say… busy (while writing a $40k check for the print work). Do you have a card? [I laugh] Oh, what am I saying – you work at a print shop! Of course you have a card!
(Produces card)
Terrific, I’ll hold onto this. Maybe I can carve out some time! …I like your shoes.

And I left. It felt good.

Keri is every troll who tries to make you feel shitty about yourself. What they don’t know is this: In their need to feel superior, they’ve given you the keys to their whole pathetic kingdom. So instead of obliging them and curling into a ball that’s easier to kick, picture them being utterly unremarkable with their greasy hair and puffy ankles, down in their mom’s basement with commercial printer ink under their fake nails, with nothing to prove they exist except making you feel bad. If you really want to destroy them, take away what little power they pretend to have: Laugh, roll your eyes and walk away.

Opting Out

It’s a beautiful spring day. You’re on a nice walk. There’s a dog up ahead and he drops a big steamer on the sidewalk right in your line of approach. Do you pick that shit up and make it your own? Schmeer it all over your clothes, your face and hair; maybe put some in your pocket for later so you can make jewelry with it once it dries? Of course not. It’s gross. In addition to being unhygienic, handling shit is a common indicator of psychosis. When someone drops shit in your path, don’t embrace it. Step over, go around or, ideally, kick it off the sidewalk so no one else has to step in it. Choose not to opt in to whatever wrong nonsense someone tries to run on you.

Another method of opting out: You’re in a tug of war. On the other end of the rope is an asshole whose goal it is to humiliate you. With every new insult or cruelty, he pulls you closer to that score line, which will be you posting an ugly cry. Except, you never saw the signup sheet for this! [he drags you closer to the mud…] In a flash of clarity, you realize that the only way he can pull you down is if you’re holding onto the other end of the rope… so… you simply let go, and he falls on his ass like an idiot. Sure, you technically lose at tug of war, but who cares? You win at knocking a douchebag’s dick in the dirt. You’re clean and on your feet, heading for the fourth period Chemistry. Your tormentor is filthy and bruised and on his ass. All you had to do was JUST LET GO OF THE DAMN ROPE.

My mom had another little piece of magic called, “Consider the Source.” It’s a helpful sort of…equation to help you determine if this problem is really worth your time. Is the troll related to you? Do they hold any claims of friendship with you or those you love? Do they pay your bills, or are they in a position to either advance your career or end it? Would you suffer in any measurable way if they simply fell off the planet? If you answer NO to any of these, then who cares? Why do you need that person’s praise? Why are you so desperate for the good opinion of someone who’s bringing no value to your life?

All you tender-hearted, everything-matters little darlings need to think about your caring as a precious resource. Put a dollar value on it! Little brother acting like a general dickhead $2. He puts your favorite wool sweater in the dryer and shrinks it down to Barbie size? $6 + Telling Mom (and maybe putting some kitty roca in his favorite shoes, but that’s just me). One of your 2nd tier friends leaves you off of a fun Snapchat: 50 cents. Bestie does the same: $3. You have $20 worth of Shits to give today. Try to have some left at the end of the day. Go forth. Spend wisely.

If you’re still feeling butt-hurt about things someone says or does to you, remember 94% of the people who’ve been mean to you will be doomed to a long life of painful mediocrity. The only rewards they collect are measured in retweets, which have little if any measurable value. In the same way you avoided the shit and dropped the rope, you can opt out of this game as well! Go read a book or do some volunteer work.

I’m not made uncomfortable by you expressing your opinions, because I have my Sticks-n-Stones mojo properly installed. Fuck all that. Get over it. The world’s a big, crazy place, and the sooner you grow some actual skin, the happier you’re going to be.