I saw what I had the potential to be

An observation/Reflection

TW/CW - this has to do with racism and red pill BS.

I saw what I had the potential to be. He sat across from me, talking, joking, and doing voices. He referenced a Bill Murry movie I love. He owns his own business and his home. He’s roughly twenty years my senior. We’ve had similar experiences in life, despite having vastly different backgrounds and our age difference.

We discussed so many things - movies we love (including the male bonding act of reciting our favorite quotes), firearms, work boots, good books (but only certain history ones), work ethic, and local gossip. We talked a bit about relationships, travel, and architecture.

I saw a man so entrenched in his bitterness, his privilege, his blaming and refusal to take any accountability. I saw a man who sees nothing wrong with his use of horrifically racist, xenophobic, antisemetic, sexist, misogynistic, and other disgusting slurs and beliefs. I saw a man whose very masculinity is so fragile that if it is even remotely questioned - or if he perceives it as questioned - he has to make sure everyone in the situation knows he is the top dog.

I saw a man who would never ask for help or admit any form of hurt (beyond the physical, which must come from an alpha-worthy source, of course). I saw a man who doesn’t just accept misery, but will go out of his way to ensure his own misery as he believes that is how his life should be. A man who wears a ring made of crosses, a cross on his bracelet, listens to Christian rock radio, has a wooden & metal crucifix in his center console, and all the hatred of a good christian. A man who lives by his own code of A Big Truck & The Way of The Gun - whatever the fuck that means.

Why was I sitting across from him? I had to.

In this small town where jobs are scarce and everything is getting more expensive, I have to work where I can. And I hate myself for it. Two jobs - both where I find myself having to deal with ideologies and rhetoric that I disagree with, that I despise. I have to listen to people say awful things while I grin and bear it. There are times when I can say something, but being a lowly employee in a small town (where everyone knows your bosses, and - worse - everyone knows where you live), you have to pick your battles VERY carefully.

I’ve had to listen to a guy, upon hearing the price of propane say to me, “Fuckin’ Jews, man.”

I’ve had to listen to one of my employers use the N word - and then say “when I say ‘n*****’ I don’t mean black guys, I mean a state of mind.” As if that wasn’t bad enough, he will continue to go on to use every other slur for people of every color.

I’ve had a customer, upon learning that I am Jewish, tell me “You’ll find Jesus when we’re leading you to the showers.”

I’ve heard customers, fellow townsfolk, and other business owners talk about wanting to be the ones to “line up and take out all those illegals” - usually followed by a comment about killing all those “libtards.”

I am learning patience. But the rage is seething. More and more every day. I cannot wait to be able to walk away from these toxic places and their foul experiences. I am also learning to hate myself (more than I already did, if possible), for what I am willing to do to keep the roof over my head and the food in my stomach. It’s bad enough to suffer through so many things at work as customers being angry at you for prices, or just treating you like you were lower than dogshit. But this… Stooping so low just to get by. This is what it feels like to whore your mind and soul out.

“But, David, you said you had the potential to be that asshole you were talking about earlier.”

Yes, Pete, I did.

That could have been me. Easily. Without the therapy, without the moments of having my eyes opened, without that damned evil empathy. That could have been me. Riding my life away in a big truck, angry at the world that the world didn’t like me because I’m a white (ish) man. I can see how easy it is for so many men to swallow the red pills, one inch at a time.

I used to use everything about myself to keep people away from me. It was easier than facing my trauma, or my emotions - emotions I didn’t know how to identify, process, or even allow myself to feel. Vile words under the guise of “humor”, sex as a weapon, and self sabotage were my weapons - and I wielded them expertly. I was surgical and atomic all at once, I left no one unscarred and my wake brimmed with chaos and damage. I am fortunate that so many things happened just when they did so I could begin my journeys of healing and learning and unlearning.

I am not here to toot my own horn. I am just talking about the sad reality of what must be done. Work. Deal. Cope. Pay the bills. Watch out. Keep your head down. They know where you live. They know your car. They know your bosses and your family. I want to speak up, I want to SCREAM! When I am with certain people, I do. When I am in a place where I have the slightest chance of being heard, I do.

Some days I get home from one job or another, I take off my shoes, I hug my cat, and I weep. I weep with anger and fear. I weep because I am so fucking mad at myself for not doing more, not saying more. I cry because I am ashamed and because I am a coward.

I do not say that for sympathy or to defend my current choices or circumstances. I say it because I know it. I know in a better situation or if I had a different life I could leave both these jobs and these people in the dust. The sad reality is the same thing so many people have said when they went back into their jobs that were toxic or abusive or unsafe; the same thing so many people who teetered on the decision to strike or join a union have said; it is the same thing that we, the working class, have been saying to ourselves and our loved ones for as long as we’ve been around: gotta eat.

I love how many people are talking about organizing, banding together, boycotting, and going on strike. I really love it. I do not love the all-or-nothing attitude from so many people. Here we are, so many people boycotting Target & Amazon, flipping off swasticars, and going to our protests. For some of us, that is all we can do. For others, that is more than they can do, and for some they can do even more than that. But, I digress.

When I finish my days covered in the smell of death, chemicals, and cigarette smoke - I shower and scrub myself as hard as I can, hoping that it will scrub my mind and my conscience. I say little prayers and curses to things I don’t know if I believe in. I get the water so hot that my skin feels like it’s going to slough off. I dry off and cover myself in scented oils, I light candles and incense to get the scent out of my nostrils. Before I add something with vanilla and spice to my beard, I wipe off the foggy mirror and I see who I am. I see how far I have traveled from what I was and where I want to continue on. But I remember how easily I could have become something else. I look in the mirror and see what I had the potential to be.