Currently sitting in my drafts is a piece of prose I am unable to post. Despite being “anonymous”, the main character is too distinguishable. I doubt anyone from that sector of my life would ever stumble upon this blog, let alone read it, but I feel the risk is too great. I hope in a year I’ll be able to publish it to this site. I wanted to have complete freedom here. A poster board for my messy thoughts to be splattered upon. I suppose the dream of speech without consequence is more daunting than Musk realises. Instead I’ll drop a couple of snippets here. I’m sure, unfortunately, people might be able to relate to the experience. Even if inferring from disjointed fragments.
Bellow is simply some thoughts about encountering far-right acquaintances and how the social settings can be difficult to navigate. I feel especially conflicted within these scenarios since the “blue haired liberal” memes circulated in 2021. At the time I did indeed have blue hair and was sat in a politics and an economics classroom twice a week. The internet’s juvenile jokes made any opinions I expressed fall under supreme scrutiny. Arguments I made were almost immediately denounced. Shrugged off. Dismissed as the mad ramblings of a “woke police” internet activist. These experiences taught me to craft my arguments in a Trojan horse esc style in conversations. Attempting to deeper understand my peers and use this to better get through to them. This method fell futile at the feet of many but achieved agreement from some. It is not that I am always convinced I am right, it is more my desire to be heard. For my opinions to be respected for their substance instead of ignored.
Regardless; here are the tiny excerpts:
In life, you come across all kinds of people. I once met a man who would charge people for a photograph with his pet monkey perched on their shoulders. His little fury accomplice wore a harness like you might see on tear away children and a miniature bowler hat. Such a business seemed like it must only reside in black and white photos, but existed in colour on the cracked iPhone screen he thrusted in front of me. I am lucky enough to have met young entrepreneurs, dancers and activists. Poets and painters and chefs. All manner of people in all different fonts. Even at work I have met a brilliant assortment of people. More recently however, the same compliments cannot be given upon meeting him.
(insert identifying description here and all the things I can't publish)
“Poor guy” he said, turning back around.
This should’ve blared alarm bells in my head. I should’ve distanced myself, but instead I blamed the far right media he was being drip fed. Each macho video spouting acid that sprung into his feed. He was probably the target audience I told myself. Young, white, male and impressionable. Looking for a place in the world, and these media outlets were sure going to tell him where that was.
Time progressed and he seemed to view me as a friend. He would spout derogatory insults to me after customers had left, expecting me to laugh at their expense. He would even spend time dissecting people in efforts to guess whether they were transgender or not. Assessing their physical attributes and concluding that they were freaks either way. This was all disturbing. I would frequently vent to my friends about all I was forced to hear at work. I would even colloquially bring up his behaviour to my manager who told me to stop because it “made her sad”. Some days his ugly words would simply bounce off of me as I would assure myself he was the minority . A delinquent . A bigot far beyond his years. Other days it would feel like I was drowning in all of his vile words. How he regarded to what he decided were trans people as “things” and expressed constant disgust at what the “tramps” were wearing. He would even question “how their man would let them leave the house like that” because he “wouldn’t have it”. Every shift felt like it was grinding away at me. My friends and loved ones flickered in my brain with each and every syllable his venomous tongue uttered. I wondered whether he would say the same about them. Or about me if I was the one buying food. I concluded that he would.
Over the course of working with him, it was hard to know what was worse. The fact he felt comfortable enough around me to be open with this behaviour, or that he would commit it in the first place. He was so flagrant with the verbal abuse he would utter behind the backs of innocent bystanders. Sneering or chuckling to himself as he did so. I would try to comfort myself. Telling myself how it was better that I was hearing these things instead of others. I hope they stay confined to the *redacted* walls.
Something people forget to tell you when you’re repeatedly in these environments, is how quickly it can creep up on you. How quickly it can become normal. Even outside of that setting. Sometimes I’ll hear his voice. I’ll hear comments he would say, invading my mental sanctuary. Hearing these things in my own brain drags hatred and shame alongside them. Hatred for myself for having such cancerous thoughts even enter my head and guilt for the same reason.
As childish as it sounds, I never wanted him to know he could hurt me. I never wanted him to know he could win. He would frequently jokingly call me a bitch. I think he revelled in knowing that he could. The word seemed to carry power as it left his mouth. Knowing I would never express offence for fear of being seen as weak. Or sensitive. God forbid sensitive.
Woman kind’s greatest insult. One word that has managed to utterly invalidate us. Disregard us. For the crime of being “sensitive”. We like to tell ourselves how there is more strength in being emotional. More courage in owning our femininity. But we all know that under the male gaze this can never be true.
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