I’ve been preparing this blog and writing for nearly a year. It has taken every ounce of my heart, strength, and soul. So much therapy, so many prescriptions. I have wondered how I would make it public and announce it to the world. You see, getting my story out doesn’t matter much to me intrinsically, for myself. I want other victims of abuse and childhood trauma to learn there is peace in stepping outside the darkness. Fear thrives in the shadows and I know personally that I felt alone for so long. I just needed to be brave. Try as I might, I couldn’t muster it up. I simply couldn’t find it within myself.
I’ve been borrowing other people’s brave for decades, or I have been faking my own brave. When I’d borrow brave, I needed reassurance from others. Did I do the right thing? What would happen? What would people think of me? I had to be bolstered by knowledge and reassurance that I was correct or safe, somehow in the moral, ethical, or legal right. I have never been one to fight for posterity, and certainly not for a cause worth it. And, it’s not like I never knew what right or wrong was, I was terrified to try it on for size…my brave. It repulsed me to borrow brave. Because even on loan to exercise it made me physically sick. It wasn’t authentic.
Regardless, it doesn’t really matter now. What does is that, for the first time, I had my own. Tapped into it without even knowing it it was there or how to do it. Stood on my own two feet. And the context in which it all happened still has me a bit gobsmacked.
It all happened rather randomly, too. As luck would have it, I encountered a prick of a prestidigitator (thank you so much, Moira Rose, you continue to deliver the goods) and my brave flew out of me like I’d had it all along. And, thanks to Pearl’s expansive vocabulary and blistering intelligence (I am still borrowing that from her), it came with teeth. She would be proud.
As things are in our society, people aren’t kind. And oh my God, they are self serving. It is prevalent everywhere I turn. Our political climate has amped this up significantly. I was doom scrolling on Facebook and happened upon a post written by an old friend. His post was laden with fear, subtle but palpable. The deeply seeded kind. Friend also happens to be Latino, a culture that I’ve loved since Pearl taught me how to roast green chiles on the back porch when I was in kindergarten. Friend’s family was tightly knit, and everyone knew it. Their Christmas tamale roll parties were as ubiquitous as his family was in the stands at every sporting event. Friend was proud of his culture, still is. Effusively. Even in the 70s and 80s when concepts like diversity weren’t more appreciated, and everyone was engaged in tokenism (“I have a Black friend!”????????♀️). Friend’s family and his heritage defined every ounce of his being. He was, and remains to this day, proud of who he is.
Having known Friend for 47 years, I have significant anchor-point memories of him. His ridiculous double collared polo shirts in the 80s, his gigantic smile, and his effortless kindness. The pseudo mullet was a favorite of mine. Friend was a chameleon, easily sliding between groups without residue. He could maneuver from one group to the next without others saying, “oooohhh, why were you talking to X???” Friend just did him. He was a multi-sport athlete, which meant he had ultimate cool jock points, but he was just at ease with grunge kids, nerds, outcasts, and the like. I was cool-group adjacent. Because of my home situation, I never really fit anywhere but I also wasn’t strongly disliked, at least I don’t think. I wasn’t locked into a specific group, but I also wasn’t a social outcast. I worked hard to fly under the radar. Friend was awesome to me from day one when we both wore ugly corduroy pants, had bad haircuts (his was way worse than mine ????), and no air conditioning in our cars or homes.
With my eyes today, I can see that Friend had really good parents, a supportive extended family, or a solid home life, likely all three. He wasn’t constrained by any one thing, person, or identity. Friend was best defined just by being himself, unabashedly. He was kind, funny, studious, and even a wee nerdy when he’d find something he liked talking about. Friend was, and remains to this day, the kind of person every parent would be proud to have as a child.
Given his race and ethnicity, Friend is in a bit of a frenzy. Recent political events and shifts in the landscape make for angsty times, and I cannot say that I blame him. As a white woman, I have a certain amount of privilege. Never will I know the fear of having the wrong color skin, an accent that sends up alarms, or traditions that this country questions. Categorically speaking, my existence is seen as rather benign. Conversely, Friend is worried for his children, his parents, siblings, and extended family. He is worried for his beloved culture. I cannot even imagine what that must feel like. And, if I’m honest, a part of me is glad that I never will because I would crumble under the pressure of it all. Friend has a longer history of brave than I do.
Friend posted on his Facebook timeline about raids occurring in a locale of significance to him. Perhaps it was the home of family or friends, I do not know. But it doesn’t matter anyway. Comments on his post ranged from commiseration, indignation and the inhumanity of it all, to the existential. Then, comments came rolling in asking him where he’d “heard the information,” what his sources were, then debating the merits of the practice. The thing is, every news outlet was reporting ICE activity somewhere, with varying degrees of difference. Is all of the information correct? Likely not. But, the facts really didn’t matter in this particular instance. If someone feels like they are under attack from every angle, you do not ask about the veracity of the attack or their perception of it. You address feelings first. Always.
A benign question, the sources, in a less politically charged atmosphere but totally irrelevant given Friend’s post was rooted in fear. He wasn’t debating politics; news is flying at him and everyone is taking aim. Any response to him should have put politics completely aside and seen the humanity of it all. Friend is a human first and foremost, and a political being second (or third/fourth/fifth/etc, depending on his choice and worldview).
One particular question, however, was posted by the prick of a prestidigitator. I will henceforth refer to this person as PoaP because, while he’s not deserving of Moira’s linguistic excellence the accuracy of this description cannot be overlooked. The post struck a chord in me that ran deep and I was livid in ways I could not quite articulate. PoaP was flippant, dismissive, and questioned Friend’s sources. Without so much as thinking, I fired off a response in defense of Friend and as a showing of solidarity. It’s not like I felt like Friend needed my help, I felt like it was the right thing to do. Every minority out there, however you describe the term, needs friends right now. I was ready, willing, and able.
Never, in my wildest dreams, would I ever comment like PoaP did. Especially when a friend was in need, showing angst, fear. It’s wrong, ill timed, cruel, and certainly not Christian, as PoaP cloaks himself to be. A Christian puts religion aside and acts on humanity based on a higher principle, being, calling. And, in doing so, it is the ultimate showing of Christianity. It is what Jesus would do. To be Christian and to claim or act Christian are two vastly different things. Those who run around, “look at me! I’m doing good, I’m Christian!” are precisely the ones to look out for. Look at most of the other world religions and I’d say the same thing about them, too. When acting based upon your interpretation of God(s), which is to say being kind first and foremost, you are embodying your faith, regardless of what it might be. I do not believe God(s), in any of the interpretations, is malevolent, hateful, discriminatory, or mean. Don’t try to convince me otherwise. You will be wasting your time. God in all forms, in my world, means to love.
Back to my point. Good friends don’t do that, posting a crappy politically laced comment in such incendiary times, but especially not to Friend…who has no enemies and was showing vulnerability. I noted that PoaP’s post lacked humanity and showed a deep disregard for the stress Friend is under. I didn’t pull out Pearl’s big guns. Didn’t need to; pith and profundity are the name of the game.
You see, Friend isn’t really a political beast by nature. Frankly, if it wasn’t so monochromatic (which is to say lacking proximity to his beloved family and Latino culture), I think Friend would love a cool-tempered place like Finland where everyone is just…happy. Finland is supposed to be the happiest country on the planet. Frankly, though, Friend would live with white people, Blacks, Asians, short, tall, purple, green, or folks with 3 heads. Friend is a good person, to his core. He just loves people. Stupid selfies with his beautiful fiancee and his adopted doggo clutter his pages. He works for the betterment of others. Friend is obsessed with his stunning and brilliant daughters (I’ve never met either, but his fatherly sentiments are clear when he talks about them). Give Friend a cold beer, those he holds dear, and the world could collapse around him. My assumption is that Friend would die a happy man.
The response from PoaP was like reliving teenage drama all over again. You see, I know PoaP. And not one of my memories is good. Not one.
PoaP ran in a circle of guys that were brutal. Popular, athletic, and cute by 80s standards. Every guy wanted to be them and every girl wanted to date them. Thing is, these guys were arrogant, playground bullies in the highest form, which is to say they were abhorrent in every construction of the word. So many people suffered at their hand as they chuckled their way to the 50-yard line, thinking their experiences under the Friday night lights would translate to life success and happiness. They misguidedly believed they had authority or power because of their physicality. I personally diverted my walks in the hallway at school to avoid their ire. I was called chubby and “Fat Pig Stick,” quite literally, and I was a size 8. Specifically, PoaP and one other in his crew made my days at school absolute hell. I would literally go from the frying pan at home to the one at school. Hiding in the hallways, crying in the bathrooms. You name it, PoaP did it. And he gloated about it. Denigrate prick.
PoaP and his crew, by virtue of their athletics, meant that they ran in similar circles as Friend and his crew. Regardless of their age and grade difference, PoaP being older, they were proximal in nearly every aspect of school life. It’s odd, when I look back now, that PoaP and Friend ever got along, even on a superficial level, but I attribute that to Friend wanting to see the good in all people and things. Note: this is not to say Friend is perfect. Nobody is. But I’ve never seen or heard him, firsthand and otherwise, degrade, deride, or harass anyone.
So, I posted my reply and went about my day. PoaP wasn’t worth my time. Not long after, I noticed he replied to me and my defense of Friend. And OH MY GOD. In an instant, PoaP became worth my time, for Friend and for the younger me that he tormented so horrifically.
His retort was a long, ranting diatribe that attempted to mansplain the situation to me. His logic was flawed, his typos were rampant, and his command of the English language ghastly (which, incidentally, is quite ironic given his stance on immigration and American culture). The man literally could not weave a cogent thought together; nevertheless, he threw it at me like a blunt apparatus hoping it would land. And boy did it. Just not like he’d hoped.
I was instantly transported back to my youth being bullied by my dad and jerks like PoaP. Only this time, I had stones…stones he would never have by way of begging, borrowing, or stealing to get. The insolent, uneducated, man-child that is PoaP woke a part of me that I hadn’t seen before. My brave came out, unfettered, without hail, and needing no reassurance. My brave stood on its own. Confident, not arrogant. Assured.
And, well, enter Pearl. I eviscerated PoaP. Publicly for the entire world to see with eloquence, locution, precision, and framing only Pearl could have taught me. My God she was a genius. I called him out for being a bully, then and now, a shitty friend, ill informed, and ego driven. Only I used words and logic from a place he will never achieve or fully understand. Systematically, I tore him apart; his fallacy, character, and ethics. All of it.
Almost instantly, my DMs blew up. People from so long ago sharing the same story of PoaP and how awful he was to them, too. Telling me I was brave. Huh? Do these people even know me? This was my first act of bravery ever, and I wouldn’t even call it that. It was simply the right thing to do. I had the agency and wherewithal to execute the task of standing up for another human.
And, as you would guess, PoaP blocked me, Friend, and a few others, too. Deleted his comments. The irony here is not lost on me. As a Christian, it is our duty to show humanity first and foremost. To love all. To show remorse and apologize when we have wronged. And, as humans, we all get it wrong. A lot. But not PoaP, he ran in his righteous rightness right into the shadows. Perhaps it was because he had nothing to say, no defense for his boorish behavior. Maybe he was embarrassed. I don’t know and frankly don’t care.
Reflecting on this situation, I wondered why I would go to the mattresses for Friend. I haven’t seen him in well over 30 years. Not that I wouldn’t want to go to the mattresses for him; he’s just not the obvious choice given our time and distance from each other. We share pleasantries, holiday and birthday wishes via social media, and that’s it. For my coming of age, growing into my own, why was this the right time? And then it hit me like a ton of bricks.
All those years ago, when Mick was in the highlight of his malignant narcissistic state as a parent, he got angry with me. Over what, I cannot remember. But, there we were in front of the school and my dad was ripping into me. Remember, this was the 80s; spanking was not only acceptable it was encouraged. I was clearly and visibly shaken. This was Mick’s jam. He loved it. People to watch; he’d later scold me for “forcing” him to do what he did.
And, out of the blue…Friend’s mom. She just kind of appeared, as mothers do. She wanted to chat with me about how I’d covered my book with a paper bag and decorated it. Offered me a piece of gum. Looked me square in the eye and communicated to me in ways never before seen; words were spoken without a breath passing her lips. Friend’s mom intuitively knew what was happening, and she was trying to ease my pain, even if only for a moment. Instinctively and bravely. You see, she put herself on the line for me…for what was right. A Latino woman, deliberately inserting herself in between Mick, an entitled man who believed his wife and children were possessions, and me. Why? Because she saw a situation that she could not walk away from. She put herself at risk…for me. Humanity. This is what God looks like.
Memories and the brain have a strange way of working. Lurking in the recesses of the mind and popping out of the blue. Somehow, some way, maybe this was my way of repaying Mrs. Friend for helping me. I cannot be sure. On that day, so long ago, she showed me her brave, her humanity, and made my evening a little easier. Regardless of why, the connection in my mind is undeniable. I know why I went to the mattresses for Friend; it’s because his mom went to the mattresses for me.
All of this is to say, there are two basic types of people in this world. Those that love for the pure joy of the act and those that don’t. Those that see differences as something to be celebrated and fully enjoyed, loved. Random and small acts of kindness matter. Bullies are everywhere, emboldened by decades of getting away with it, some by dumb luck, others by having an insane amount of money, entitlement, and privilege. They bank on people hiding in the darkness.
Whatever it is you choose, I hope you remember Mrs. Friend. She showed me brave so that one day I could return the favor. In this instance, it just happened to be with her son. We live in a tenuous time, be sure to share your brave today, in whatever small way you can.
And, if you can, please share this with a friend. Too many abuse and trauma survivors live in silence. I’d like to share my brave with them.
It matters.
