Caterwauling

As Virginia Tech students prepare to resume classes after last week’s unthinkable acts, a freshman who had gone to spend the week with his family to decompress after the shootings died in a car crash.

I don’t blog about news topics all that much. I read it, I have opinions on it, but sharing it? Never really did me much good. While I love to debate a point, sometimes I just don’t care what everyone else is feeling. Unless I’m just flat-out wrong, and quite honestly you’d better be pretty damned qualified to declare that, my views are very much emotionally driven and, thus, I can change my mind but definitely not my heart.

I was reading the Virginia Tech shooter’s plays, at least the ones that were released to the public. I approached them as a professional writer, an armchair therapist and a concerned citizen. And was left with more questions than answers.

The writing is not A-plus work. Plain and simple. As a senior about to graduate with an English degree, his job search was probably going to be a challenging one.

I say this not as a bully, but as probably as an authority figure he would have despised. I mean, there’s a certain amount of creative license you have to allow a budding writer, assuming there’s no one that this might be aimed at. I read his “Mr. Brownstone” tome, and plot/exposition/resolution (or lack thereof) aside, to me it sounded like he wrote Mr. Brownstone as a way to get other kids to identify with him. Kids tend to dislike teachers and others with authority — perhaps he thought people would “get” him or “like” him for putting it out there that he was supposedly just like them.

But was there a human equivalent to Mr. Brownstone, who he used a lot of profanity-laden prose to declare that he wanted to kill?

I don’t know. I know I’ve had my experiences with bullies, and I’ve probably said more than a few careless things in my day as well, whether in response or completely out of context. But whereas these sorts of things make most of us stronger, cruelty often corrodes self-worth in the already-insecure person. And it takes time to build up that confidence and that sort of Teflon outer skin. But that’s what “normal” people eventually do — you develop coping skills, a support network, other things that make you unique and special. You carve out your niche and you start making memories you WANT to have.

What I hope the Seung Cho massacre does is opens up the public’s eyes, once again, to the fact that there are people slipping through the proverbial cracks every day, every minute. Everyone’s getting pushed to the breaking point with pressures to fit in or conform to what others think they should be.

I’m not saying to sympathize with him or even forgive him. It may turn out that he was simply going unnoticed (again, traumatizing) and that he wanted to be known, so he created his fantasy world that squicked people out and didn’t achieve his (possible) goal of making “real” friends. And then he just went and killed people, just to make his mark on the world the only way he felt he could.

What I found about bullies since junior high through now, is that they ain’t all that special. People who annoyed me in high school now live in trailer parks and have five kids to five different baby daddies. Now we’ve got trolls all over the Internet, trying to pretend they’re clever and powerful in their anonymity.

But that brings up something interesting. These people who make threats or try to be threatening, they think they’re doing so with helpless victims. But bringing this full circle, let’s talk about the bullied. Fuck with me one more time, and it might be the time I snap and light up the sky like a Fourth of July fireworks extravaganza. Or something like that.

So that leads me to think that the bullies will keep doing what they do until they are put into their places. And someone needs to do it. The persons who are bullied thus get justice and rid the world of pestilence. My conclusion is that these shooters aren’t trying to be heroes — they’re just trying to get a little bit of fucking peace already.

Now, I’m not saying prison or institutionalization (if it comes to that) is peaceful — let’s face it, they kill themselves in a blaze of glory and the world keeps turning. But the things a person will do to make the pain stop, is a case study in and of itself.

The focus of the nation is how we will recover and go on. And we can fly our flags at half-mast and say prayers for the victims and survivors at length (like Katie Heigl’s character said on “Grey’s Anatomy” Thursday, “I can say Hail Marys till I BECOME Mary, but I can’t stop missing you”), but what’s the plan, going forward?

We haven’t seen a school shooting in nearly a decade — that didn’t mean we’d never see one again. Bullies might grow up and go dark from your life (if you’re lucky), but the next generation will grow a whole bunch more to take their places.

A friend of mine went to school at Thurston High School (the shooting before Columbine), and afterward, someone (ostensibly a student) had written on the blackboard, “When will we ever learn?”

It’s chilling, the double entendre — when will they be able to get back to school and feel safe in it, for one, and two, what are we doing to save these damaged souls from being hurt and, in turn, hurting others?

Will the schools be safe when it’s my turn to send my (theoretical) children into this world? And why am I sitting here thinking about it and not DOING something about it?!?!

Nothing says “Even if it IS broke, don’t fix it” like sending 20,000 additional troops to Iraq. Way to show them Dems how big your dick is, President Shrub. Jesus. It’s like war is your equivalent of other men’s little red sports cars. Kindly have your midlife crisis NOT on my tax dollars, mmmkay?

One of my colleagues/friends just got the news that her high school boyfriend was killed in Iraq. He never intended to be a soldier — this wasn’t his passion. He enlisted in his early 20s because he didn’t go to college and the working world wasn’t doing him any favors. He was a paratrooper, just like my grandfather was.

And I hate to think it, but it’s true. What if my grandfather hadn’t just been injured in World War II — what if he hadn’t come back at all? Mom and I wouldn’t be here, of course, but to frame this discussion, my poor grandfather got abused and neglected at the Veterans Administration Hospitals his whole life — it’s like they killed him slowly instead of it happening in one tragic mission.

I doubt that thought brought any peace to my friend (and I probably shouldn’t have said it), but boy did I cry for her last night. The things we are forced to deal with that just shouldn’t happen, in an ideal world, are mind-boggling. Pain, injustice, grief — and what do we (or they?) get in return for all the bad stuff?

I have a lot of friends who went into the military for the exact same reason as my colleague’s friend — they wanted the career training and hoped for a desk job. And after their time commitment was up, they got the fuck out (just before the Iraq war, incidentally). Like they told me, NAVY stands for “Never Again Volunteer Yourself!”

I feel for my friend — this is someone who was important to her at one time, even though he wasn’t someone she thought about every day. I remember when the L.A. riots broke out after the Rodney King debacle — a guy from my high school had gone to L.A. with hopes and dreams just like so many millions before them have done, and he got caught in the crossfire. I didn’t know him well or, for that matter, even like him all that much. But what it did was connect me in some way to events that otherwise wouldn’t have touched me personally.

It makes the world smaller when you realize that somebody you know is the person the headlines are talking about. And it makes your heart a little harder, your mind a little more jaded, to know that your government doesn’t really care about you as a person — just as long as their operatives go off without a hitch.

Mom got something in the mail recently, after that fucking VA Hospital murdered my grandfather. It was a certificate signed by O Holy Shrub himself, acknowledging my grandfather’s service to this country. Whoopty fucking doo. He gave his life and his health and his best years, and all he got in return was a very painful death. If the certificate had come earlier, I would have buried it with him.

Thanks for the piece of paper and the flag that makes us cry because it was on his casket and now it’s all we have left of him. Go back to your mansion and continue your circle jerk with the joint chiefs of staff and don’t worry about the rest of us who’ve lost emotional and financial supports. Really — we’ll be OK, thanks for not asking.

Incidentally, Mom found some letters my grandfather had sent to his family. His mother was amazing, his father was absent/abusive and he was one of eight children. He always sent home money to feed the family, to ensure that the little ones got the clothes or birthday presents they wanted (they had so very little), and all he ever wanted was for them to take a couple of those dollars and send him some new guitar strings because he couldn’t find them in Germany.

These are the kinds of people that war takes away. And it’s only the few of us who knew them as people and not as just another body who will ever truly know what a great loss to this nation these people are. …

Alternate title: Catty whore or the only person in the world with a lick of sense?

Today is one of those days in which I am struggling to not only be a good person, but to act like one too.

When I turn against someone, I am through with them. Done. Dead. Fini. Fuck off. Don’t talk to me, don’t breathe my air, don’t think you can even come near me. You were given your chance and you blew it. I’ve given more second chances than Paris Hilton gives blowjobs.

Sometimes this way of thinking is irrational, I admit. But I can tell when I’ve met someone in a past life — even someone I’ve barely exchanged two words with — and I know right away whether we’re going to be best friends or sworn enemies. My soul is uneasy around people in stores or on Metro cars, and I can’t explain why it just feels wrong to be near them. Whether it’s the psychic or the schizophrenic in me, I just know.

And sometimes, I force the choice either way when I know it’s wrong. All that does is remind me how spot-on my intuition is. I’ve gritted my teeth and kissed the ass of some, while embracing others with my arms and my whole heart and never looked back. I’ve been to job interviews and even took jobs I knew would be horrid; I picked the one I have now because it just FELT right.

Have I ever been wrong before? Not really. But would I ever admit it otherwise?

I called my best friend the other day to thank her, because without her, my life would have been SO different. And not in a good way. Or maybe it would have turned out the same, with one less amazing person in it. But I doubt that — she kicked me in the ass and loved me unconditionally, and the balance did wonders for my inner, and outer, strength.

It was one of those friendships in which we just “knew” — I guess kind of like when people fall in love, they just KNOW that this is their soulmate. I’ve always believed in multiple soulmates, as I believe you can have many loves of your life — just different degrees and forms that are as diverse as the people who are worthy of it.

Then there are the people who it feels like they’re bruising your soul whenever you hear their voice.

I tend to pride myself that, throughout life, I’ve rarely allowed myself to be influenced by anyone. Sure, I’ve grudgingly cooperated with people like in past instances of “Workplace Survivor” and formed alliances that were meant to ensure my safety. There’s a lot to be said for keeping your friends close and your enemies closer.

To my credit, I question myself with everything. I don’t make a single decision that hasn’t been exhaustively weighed. I’ve supervised people who cried in my presence when I disciplined them and never felt an iota of sympathy. Empathy, maybe — we all hate to be told that we did something wrong — but if I don’t think highly of you, I will never shed a tear for you. But if I love you, then we need to go buy stock in Kimberly-Clark because we will be sobbing together!

A friend of mine put it well when she threw away a food gift for Christmas from someone she abhors — you just don’t break bread with the enemy.

I don’t know. I type all of this to try to reason through some genuine perplexity at a physical reaction I seem to have to a couple of people. One causes a nervous eye tic — my right eye twitches when I so much as hear the name. The funny part is that when my right eye twitches, a friend’s left eye twitches when that person’s name enters the discussion. Too funny!

The other, the mere voice rakes over my soul. I don’t know how else to put it. I am wondering whether I’m the only one with any sense or the only one WITHOUT any. In the long run, my opinion doesn’t matter and I don’t want to make it public, anyway. But the part of me that is so fiercely protective of my cubs wants to growl and swipe and threaten.

What a weird moment I’m having right now.

I think it all comes back to those I might have trusted who turned out to be a lot of adjectives, but not “trustworthy.” Or all those with whom I was forced to play nice, and for what? Where are they now, and was it even worth it?

I don’t want to be “that girl.” I don’t want to be catty, bitchy or two-faced. Hell, I WANT to be surprised. I don’t mind being proven wrong.

I guess it’s like in dating, where one person’s trash is another’s treasure. I’ve been both, I guess, and I’ve had both. But I don’t think I’ve ever walked away from a potential gem — I am the type to whittle away at that lump of coal until the thing is either destroyed or a diamond is formed. And I’ve also gotten to the bottom of the Tootsie pop to find that there was no chewy center after all — there was just a void.

I try hard to think what has, and/or what would have, happened when someone misjudged me. But I don’t need anyone to like me — respect, yes, but like, no. I like me just fine and anyone who’s dumb enough not to, well, isn’t worth my time.

It’s interesting how we come to feel the way we do about others, whether it’s based on logic, perception, experience, direct interaction, rumor or intuition. I always think I give more chances than are necessary, but when I don’t give but one, as I believe that’s all it should take, I feel guilty that I can’t bring myself to give more.

I guess I bring it back to dating again, when your guy’s (or gal’s!) best friend or brother is a complete and total moron. Are you the voice of reason or are you just “the bitch who never has anything nice to say”?

More importantly, can we live without saying, “I told you so,” if in fact we’re proven right, and can we say, “I was wrong” if we aren’t?

A quick aside: Thank you to my Secret Santa(s) for the gorgeous travel/overnight bag. I’ve made use of it three times so far. It’s perfect for a change of clothes and a handful of toiletries. Since I can’t send a thank-you note because none of y’all would admit to who you are, this is my thanks. *hugs*

I saw someone today I hated a million years ago. Some prick named Jerry (oh how I want to write the full name) with whom I attended middle/high school.

I had occasion to be near my old elementary school today, and fuckhead’s family lived by it. He was just such a mean little shit to me. Teased me mercilessly. I remember I had patented the blank, quizzical stare whenever he saw fit to direct remarks to me — drove him nuts. He wasn’t very smart and never cute in the least way, so he typically made an ass of himself because I refused to give him a reaction.

In any event, I remember that his father had died when we were leaving middle school. I remembered thinking how sad it was that he’d never have someone to learn from and look up to, to help him change his evil ways.

It’s been 20 years, but all the bile I’d choked back so many times came to my throat again. I drove past his house, on the way somewhere else, and saw it was in dire need of some TLC and a cable-show makeover team. And I saw his dumb ass on the porch.

He saw my plate first — I do admit, I like sporting D.C. tags in the ol’ hometown, as it is my quiet statement that I got out and am making a brand-new life for myself.

Then he saw me.

I doubt he knew who I was. That’s the thing with bullies — they go on with their miserable little lives and never look back. You see people going on talk shows — the bullied remember every hurtful action and the bullies look back at them incredulously, like, “Do I know you?”

I don’t remember the exact things he did to attempt to aggravate, infuriate or even intimidate me. I just knew I hated riding the schoolbus because I’d have to sacrifice my reading time to tune out his dumb shit. I knew he wanted so badly to hurt me and I remembered knowing that I was going to make it someday and his ass would be a sorry, fucked-up excuse of a failure.

I think I might have been right.

He apparently lives in his parents’ house, as he was standing on the porch, reading the mail. He looked right at me, as I was staring at him, trying to figure out if it was a taller version of that little asshole I remembered so well. And it was.

He’s even more homely than I remembered. And he looked dumber, too, if that were possible. I’m not necessarily one to judge, but in a word, he was “unremarkable.”

He might have been flattered that a lovely girl in a pretty sports car from out-of-town was looking at him. But I assure you, if there was any hint of a smile on my face, it was because he’s living a small life befitting of his small little mind.

If he had two brain cells to rub together, I wonder if he thinks his life sucks and whether he thinks back on what he could POSSIBLY have done to generate crappy karma. I wonder if I would ever come to mind.

Hell, I wonder if my own successes might be sweeter thanks to the likes of him and other rat bastards out there who thought (or still think) they were so much better than me.

Actually, I learned long ago that bullies are nothing — they are nobodies who come from nothing and who have nothing going for them. They define success by pulling others down to their level instead of elevating themselves.

My family used to tell me that non-special people like to cast stones at the budding stars because it might make them special instead. And as my family noted, “Don’t let those fools win.”

In any event, a part of me wanted to throw the car in park, run up the steps and punch him with all my might. But the part of me that did it in my mind was fulfilled enough. Because the other part of me with the “big job” in the “big city” with the “big life” in progress would never, ever allow myself to slither down to his level.

Besides, just knowing that there really is balance in the universe is good enough for me.