Why do the bullies almost always win? Why is it that the words get through, that the taunts strike home and make us want to cower in the closet and cry? Quite frankly, I’m not patient enough to wait for God to sort ‘em out. I want some sort of retribution NOW, dangit. God’s too slow for my taste.
Last week I was out in the yard, working on my lawnmower. I had been out there for several hours, and it was 10pm by the time I looked at my watch. All evening a group of neighborhood kids had been camped in the empty lot next door, just a few feet from my house. They were laughing and talking, cussing and smoking, and I was fine with that, honestly. If their parents didn’t care where they were, I didn’t mind them. They weren’t bothering me.
By 10 o’clock, most of the group had broken up and gone home. Four boys were left, and one of them was still yelling across the lot. Nobody was answering him, he was just enjoying the sound of his own voice. After a half hour of him, I finally yelled back. “SHUT UP.”
Yeah, I’m smart, didja notice?
He yelled back, “Who?” from the darkness, and I answered. “YOU. Just stop yelling.” “I’ll do whatever the h*** I want.” “Yeah, I know. Most hicks do.” We yelled back and forth a bit, I in the light of my barn and he in the anonymity of the night, and I finally just quit answering him. He shut up. He got in some good shots, though, and for some reason I can’t let them go. I would never let him know it. Heaven forbid.
I started to call the cops, but the truth is, they wouldn’t have cared. Country boys making noise is not a good enough cause for the sheriff or a deputy to drive 20 miles to get there and tell them to go home. The did no physical damage. I never even saw their faces – I might have woken up to slashed tires or a dead cat if I had done that, with no way to prove who did it. Eventually one of the fathers came home… the next-door neighbor: the man whose cat brought me so much joy and heartache last year with the “saga of the kittens.” The boys bolted for the house, across my yard no less.
Why would I let the angry words of a pubescent boy get under my skin?
Fear. Fear that he’s right, that my worth is based only on the opinion of others, even though I know that’s not true.
I am NOT, however, afraid that I’m a dyke. Yes, he used that word. He’s 12, or 14, and he used that word on an adult he doesn’t even know. I have such classy neighbors, doncha’ think? It made me wonder if that’s the word in the ‘hood, tho, since I don’t whore around and they never see a guy come to my house without writing on his truck, wearing a tool belt.
Tool belt. Hm. That could come in handy…
My mama used to tell me to ignore people who called me names. After a while those names stick to each other, and instead of rolling off your back, they start to pile up. Even a duck can get muddy if the mud is yucky enough.
I’m all mucked up. I really am ready for Jesus to come back. He won’t let me move, but He won’t let me kill them, either. That is not acceptable. I need more options.
You know, flogging, or castration, something like that. Gotta protect the gene pool somehow.
Hmm. I wish you could move. To Tulsa. And I know your worth is priceless.