The holiday season always leaves me torn. For a show I work on, I was talking to a lovely lesbian couple who have been together for 21 years. They both became disabled the same year (this one). I found out one of those ladies has apoplexy, a disease where your brain seizures at random moments. That explained the thick, black helmet she had to wear. Unexpectedly, she was the boisterous one of the pair and I thoroughly enjoyed it.
It was during the show where I was also told my new acquaintance admitted she gets tripped and made fun of constantly by children in public places. Wait, not children. Twelve year olds.
I’m not done.
Apparently the parents, who see their
hitler youth participate in these acts, do nothing. Nothing.
I probably sat there for a minute with my mouth open. You’re telling me this incredibly happy and partnered woman gets tortured by fucking rascals? I went from completely loving my job and the season back to the scornful, bitter girl I tend to be during these particular “holiday” shows. It was a sharp reminder of the disgust in people I almost regretted in my earlier enjoyment.
I’m [pretty] far from innocent, but my heart reaches. I could not possibly imagine treating a human or being raised it’s OKAY to treat someone like that. As if they were a clown waiting to come out of a box if instigated enough.
My coworkers often hear me “joke” that I hate people. Yes, the people who maliciously pick on the unlucky. The people who complain how heavy their prized possessions are while I spent my underpaid time opening the packaging. The people who don’t acknowledge your effort to make a living in a economy where the Herman Cains spout glamorous rhetoric in an attempt to save us. Save us? We can’t even walk twenty feet without staring at a Blackberry.
We aren’t meant to be saved.