Not Who You Think

Today is my birthday.

We went to church. I cried through the entire service.

This past week, we traveled for Thanksgiving where I found myself in the company of too few people; too few in that the impact of the one who harbors unwarranted resentment towards me could not be neutralized by a larger choice of others whom I might have enjoyed conversating with. Last year it was a larger crowd, and I thoroughly enjoyed the others, and myself. I had hoped for a similar experience this year. Foolish me.

After we escaped the scene of the tensions on Friday morning, my daughter asked me why I hate so-and-so. You see, she only sees the outward behaviors perfected over decades. The attack, the side step. The attack, the side step. The attack, the side step.

The line from Skyfall pops up.

“All of this running around, Mr. Bond. It’s exhausting.”

Yes, it is.

The holidays come every year, whether I’m ready for them or not. I never am. I blame myself. But I don’t see how I deserve the blame. I’ve never understood what it’s all about.

Until the Friday drive home.

My daughter asked again … why the attack, the side step … the attack, the side step … again and again.

Out of nowhere, my husband began telling a story. It was about the attacker. About her life.

No, I’m not going to name names or give out the details, but here’s how it goes. The attacker, despite being around me for now three decades, has never asked me one question about my life, my interests, my experiences, my background, my education, my career, etc. Never one question. The attacker knows nothing of my life as a mom of two needy adopted daughters. The attacker knows nothing of my upbringing and years of pushing pushing pushing to survive, get an education, and walk the path of a solid career. The attacker knows nothing of the career sacrifices made so that I could be home with my kids at a crucial time in their lives.

The only question the attacker has ever asked me was this:

“Where did all the money go?”

You see, despite my having explained to the attacker that we would be downsizing our life for a period in order for my husband and I to switch roles as breadwinners, the attacker had made up some grand story about us being wealthy. Despite explaining it again, I realized on Friday while driving home and listening to my husband tell the story, that the attacker had not understood what I’d explained.

The attacker did not know then, and does not know now, anything about managing money. And the attacker does not know what they don’t know. But they do know they don’t know a lot. So they hide behind passive aggressive attacks. On me. Because they think that I am living the life that they should have had.

And, as my husband said so directly in the car, the attacker is envious of my career success and jealous of what they think is our relatively comfortable financial life. That they feel robbed of what they should have had, and are now acting out of their own wounded-ness. And I am the target.

You probably figured that out a few paragraphs back, but parts of me still operate like a naive child. I’ve always cheered others on. I’m happy when others are successful. I don’t feel that anyone owes me anything. I worked myself out of abandonment by my broken-soul parents, struggled through a period of poverty while working two jobs and going to night school while paying down stupid credit card debt with the help of a credit association, and then got the biggest break that anyone could hope for after applying for jobs as a car salesperson, an airline hostess, and a racing parts store manager. I walked into a personnel agency, answered a few questions, and they sent me to a real big and shiny office building. I was immediately hired to work as a customer service rep in the home office of a large insurance company. It was the job that morphed into multiple promotions and set the foundation of my three-decade career in consulting. I moved on to an electric utility, still attending school at night, graduated with my undergrad, and was hired by a Big 8 firm.

And even after getting the Big 8 career, I continued attending graduate school at night. There were entire weekends when I didn’t use my voice because I was alone in my apartment studying, not realizing my silence until I said "good morning" to a colleague upon my arrival at work on Monday. It was kind of jolting, but that was my life.

My attacker knows none of what I’ve just told you. Will I tell them?

What? Do you think I’m stupid?

Why am I writing this today? Because I’m sick of keeping my mouth shut about this thing that happens to me A LOT. There are many people out there in the world who think they are owed something. And it’s not just health, wealth, and wisdom. They also want you to mirror back to them what they want to believe about themselves. And if you don’t, you’re what one woman at church called me.

“Wow, I always thought you were a beyotch!” she said.

“I’m sorry?” I asked.

“You know … a beyotch … it’s the nice way of saying … you know … the “b” word.”

“Uh no. I’ve never heard of that,” I said, stunned by what she’d said. Why would she say something like that?

“Well, you’re not. I just thought you were. It’s the way you carry yourself,” she said, realizing I was a little hurt.

“How is that?”

“Like you’re better than everybody else,” she said.

Here’s a story.

When I was 12, my parents began their long-coming decline into unfaithfulness, domestic violence and eventual divorce. It was 1969. I had finished elementary school, where I rode my bike to school every day, and then attended junior high, where I was bussed to a school located in the low-income section of the city's south end. When I first arrived, I was 5’3” short, white (I still am), and I had a mouth on me. Although my elementary school was somewhat diverse, this was completely different. The junior high student population was more than 60% Black, about 30% Hispanic, and the rest a smattering of Asian and White. The first week I was there, Sharon Brown, a hefty black girl, tried to shake me down in the lunch room.

“Give me your lunch money, bitch,” she snarled.

I looked at her for a long second ... pretty much ready to rock. There’s a reason for that, but explaining it would be a rabbit trail.

“I don’t have any money. And even if I did, I wouldn’t give it to you anyway.”

She wasn’t expecting that. Sharon got up and walked to another table.

By the end of my 7^th grade year, I had grown five inches, reaching 5’8”. Add the platforms, and you have one towering and mouthy chick. I’d survived a gang intimidation incident involving me walking alone out to the soccer field, followed by at least twelve loud and mouthy black girls walking shoulder to shoulder, telling me what they were going to do to me. The little ring-leader, skinny Carla, had been harassing me for about a week. Now, by this time, I’d been knocked around pretty good by my dad on a regular basis, his way of venting his anger about my mother’s affairs, so I wasn’t going to run away. I knew (or just thought) I could take it.

I stopped and turned around.

They stopped. Obviously confused – I wasn’t following the script.

I put my hands on my hips and yelled.

“All right, Carla. Let’s go. Let’s just get this over with!”

Carla looked at me. Looked at her friends, and looked back at me. The girls began walking back to the locker room, while Carla stood there. She looked down at the ground, and then back up at me, this time with a smile on her face.

“Okay, girl. It’s all right. We’re good.” And she turned around and started walking back toward the locker room.

I learned something important that day.

And then at some point I forgot it.

People will misunderstand you, and most of the time you accept it as part of the human condition.

But there are a few times here and there when you have to say, “Enough is enough. Let’s get this over with.”

You have to be willing to take your lumps. Because you never know.

After that day in the soccer field, Carla became one of my best friends.