While I recognize I’m too damn old for tumblr...

I accept the risk that I am shouting this out into the void. Having said so...Here are some thoughts I have had on bullying in the present and the past.

There is something people who refuse to engage in or use our time bullying that bullies--and abusive personalities--of nearly every stripe will simply never have. I wish with all my faded ginger hair-covered Druid brains that this thing was enough to protect the targets of abusers and bullies. I can’t pretend, even for an instant that it’s enough on its own; that would be dangerous and irresponsible. What I hope is that by sharing something even so simple that it’s probably a gold medalist in the “staggeringly obvious” category, if you’ve missed it or forgotten it, that you may get some recharge or some reinforcement or affirmation out of it. Thank you for bearing with me, whoever you are.

In Roald Dahl’s Matilda there’s a scene where Mr. Wormwood rips the book out of his daughter hands in rage that she is enjoying something that he cannot see the point of, that he cannot share or experience for himself, without (I think) reflecting on why this may be so. He rips every page from her library copy of The Red Pony,  this self-righteous rage at what he sees as exclusion (spoiler: it’s not exclusion Mr. awful fictional father of the year) just accelerating at every tear and crumple. 

What he can’t see is that he has not been excluded, unfairly or otherwise; he has exiled himself. An enormous percentage of bullies and abusers (I think) have at some point in their life exiled themselves without necessarily realizing that it was the kind of exile most likely to become forever. They do this for uncountable reasons, for all the motivations the kinder (than me, I am neither nice nor forgiving) guidance counselors and teachers and checked-out but well meaning parents assign; instability or violence they themselves are suffering from, insecurity, fear, unmanaged rage, undiagnosed mental health needs, the desperate need to fill a void by fitting in with some people even those people are predatory f&ckwafflers...Or even more benign reasons. More understandable and relatable reasons. All of their friends have declared themselves too old for She-Ra and just want to watch Grease. Jim Henson dies and suddenly nobody thinks Muppets are cool. Art projects are never going to be as good as That One Girl who Can Draw...

(Sometimes I think it’s happened because historically, things have been really, deeply bad and people have been pulled away from “childish stuff” to grow up faster, provide for their family in need sooner. Given how things went down in the Depression for my grandfather and basic empathy I am not here to cr&p on anybody in that position.)

What I’m getting at is that for a wide variety of possible reasons, good bad and ugly...people give up their appreciation of wonder. Sometimes it’s bit by bit so someone doesn’t even notice, sometimes it’s accelerated. Once gone though, it’s not impossible to get back but it is difficult, and our general society in the US doesn’t make that easier. 

Now the historian in me is making faces and grunting and preparing to sit up and hurl things--probably unintelligible personal papers from the 18th century or Civil War privy contents or toenail clippings of the Venerable Bede so let me just clarify; this is a theory based on the experiences and interpretations of literary and non fiction works by one person. One. I’m an undergrad lit major, I have a grad degree in history and some training in Mainline Liberal Ministry. I am spectacularly good at being wrong; I could be wrong here.

A sense of wonder and joy does not have to come from the Big Experiences in your life--that trip you were lucky to take to the Grand Canyon, the fan vaulting in Westminster Abbey, the Pacific or Atlantic Ocean, or a whale watch. I mean it can...of course it can but it can be very small as well...Skyscapes at 2pm from on foot wherever you live or for a hot minute in the car or through a window. The cat doing something ridonculous... A color in an ad on a Bus, a sparrow. TREES.--okay now I’m getting into what could be mistaken as Inspirational BS here so moving on...it can be a book, a story that grips each side of your head, pulls you down to the page and will not let you go until it’s over and you’re transported, transformed, legally High off Your Arse...wishing there was more. Sometimes it doesn’t matter worth a damn how you encounter that story--book, TV, movie, song...

It is my theory based on empirical observations and data from a very limited sample pool, I genuinely suspect, I even believe it is possible that bullies and abusers have exiled themselves so profoundly from Wordsworth’s (I can’t stand the guy but he got this idea right) “Inner Eye” and from the capacity to take in the larger world that they have lost the ability to do so in any way. There’s no inspiration or laughter or strength or hope or determination to draw from anything but domination of every nasty kind possible over anyone they can get into a position to dominate. (However unfounded my concern may be to clarify I do not mean a healthy responsible Dom/Sub dynamic here). In actuality, dominate may be the word they use to themselves, consciously but it’s really more about needing to tyrannize (not in the Greek city state definition) and then destroy any and all opposition. That imperative grows until a child reading a book becomes how dare they!?! because the bully/abuser recognizes that here is at least some portion of another human being’s experience that they can no more control than they can shape the weather. That chink in the armor, that gap in the advancing charge, that inaccessible bit is an unholy and raging terror to a lot of bullies and abusers. 

if you’ve been bullied it may well have been more than I was. It may still be going on. You may be in the slow and horrendously dangerous process of extracting yourself and everyone you love from the reach of one or more of the worst kind of bullies: abusers. I wish I could help you more than by simply saying all this. I’m more sorry than you will likely ever know that it’s not enough. But it’s out there.  (PS, I have ADHD. There will be typos.)

Take no heed of them. They were killed of their own Idiocy.

Henry Knox to Anthony Wayne, 1790s

reblogging. Thanks, darthstitch and Roger.