Bullies and Books

Choose one over the other

I’ve always been a voracious reader. Growing up in poverty with a single, hard-working mother meant we didn’t get to have a lot of traveling adventures. So, I would escape with books to faraway lands, different periods of time, and fantasy worlds that didn’t exist outside the confines of my mind. One of my favorite places to read was in the basement laundry room of our apartment building.

The washers and dryers occupied the front of the space, and in the back were rows of chicken-wire storage units. Many were locked, but a few weren’t. I would situate myself inside an unlocked unit—in between old cardboard boxes, dusty furniture, and artificial Christmas trees—to read. It was always warm and cozy from the dryer heat, and it smelled like Downey.

Not only was it a secret, quiet place to hide, it was a retreat from the feral group of school-aged boys who terrorized the apartment complex with their loud voices, their stolen cigarettes, and their foul mouths.

Until it wasn’t.

Once, when I was in second grade and enjoying a Saturday afternoon in the laundry room with Ma, Pa, and Laura Ingalls; I heard them stumbling down the concrete stairs. I made myself small, quiet, and inconspicuous—waiting for their retreat.

But they didn’t retreat. Instead, they walked up and down the rows of storage bins, rattling the doors and looking for something to loot.

“Hey!” one of them yelled. “This one’s unlocked! Let’s see what’s here.”

I heard boxes being opened and personal items being tossed aside carelessly.

“Nothing we want,” one of them surmised, and they continued down the aisle I was in.

They were two bins away, and I was holding my breath when I heard one of them say, “Hodge? Is that you? What in the hell are you doing?”

My heart caught in my throat, and I answered meekly, “I’m just reading.”

“Damn, you’re such a weirdo,” one of them said. “You’re reading in a storage unit?”

“I am. I like it here. It’s quiet.”

“Fag,” another one said—the ultimate 1970s grade school insult.

“Do you like gum?” another asked, while the rest of them laughed.

“Chewing gum?”

“Of course, dummy,” he said. “Hubba Bubba.”

“I guess so,” I said.

“Well, I have a piece for you,” he said. “But I left it outside. Give me a minute.”

The other boys were howling with laughter now, and I was confused and uneasy.

The boy with the gum returned and handed me a sloppily wrapped piece of Hubba Bubba.

“Here,” he said.

“Did you unwrap it?” I asked.

“What does it matter?” he asked. “Aren’t you going to thank me?”

“Thanks,” I said quietly as I popped the pink block of gum into my mouth.

Immediately, I knew something was wrong. It tasted rancid, like it had spoiled. But gum didn’t spoil. I spit the pink lump out into my hand.

“What’s wrong, Hodge?” the boy snarled. “Don’t you like the taste of piss?”

By now, the other boys were laughing so hard that tears were spilling from their eyes. They laughed harder as they watched the realization wash over my face, as I dropped the gum at their feet. I spit on the floor a couple of times, trying to hold back my own tears of shame and embarrassment. I grabbed my book and ran from them, their mockery pushing me home like a strong wind at my back.

“What’s wrong?” my sister, Carrie, asked as I ran to the bathroom, crying.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” I yelled, scrubbing toothpaste all over my teeth and tongue, a quiet rage burning inside me.

I never wanted to talk about the indignities those boys inflicted upon me. The way their mean pranks would light up their faces; the way they’d mock my trust and naivete. I didn’t tell anyone about the time I was lying in the grass, looking for animals in the clouds as each of them, in quick succession, rode their bikes over my shins. And I certainly didn’t tell anyone about the time one of them said he had a surprise for me as he led me to a back bedroom where his friend was sitting on the bed, completely naked, penis erect, a stupid grin on his face.

They grew stronger and more cruel as I became increasingly afraid of them. They threatened me with harm if I told on them. They kept me quiet with their mean laughter and their cold hearts.

Today, I have zero tolerance for bullies. When I see them in action, it triggers something wild and untamed in me. I feel my reaction in the core of my gut as it spreads throughout my body and flushes my face red with a hot, unbridled rage.

Just like it did when I watched the Oval Office press conference with President of Ukraine, Volodymyr Zelenskyy.

When JD Vance reproached Zelenskyy for not thanking the United States (which Zelenskyy has, of course, done numerous times), I felt like that little girl who was forced to say thank you for a piss-soaked piece of chewing gum. I watched in horror as our (fairly?) elected President treated our ally like an unworthy child because Zelenskyy wouldn’t submit to his extortionist demands. My skin prickled as Vance giggled smarmily while a right-wing reporter asked about Zelenskyy’s clothing choice. This man, this leader, this ally has been leading a war-torn country through an unprecedented and brutal Russian invasion, and this second-rate reporter has the audacity to ask about his clothes? (Which, by the way, are worn in solidarity with his soldiers at home.)

The entire exchange, the gaslighting, the abasement, the indignities, the epic bullshittery made my blood pressure skyrocket. And the fact that some Americans still support this shitshow of a Putin-controlled Presidency makes me want to throw things. Hard. And I’m a former centerfielder with a wicked arm. I’m no longer a timid eight-year-old being bullied by ill-mannered boys who want to bolster their own perceived strength by making others feel smaller and less than. I’m a loud, educated, opinionated woman who is too tired and old to give a fuck about what anyone thinks of me.

So, here’s what I want to say today: America, wake the fuck up. Read a book. Learn world history. Practice empathy. Protect our parks and the people who take care of them. Understand what is at stake here. Put down your McDonald’s cheeseburgers and turn off FOX “News.” I can no longer abide the willful ignorance of this country. Maybe you slept through your government and history classes in high school, but you know what? You can do better now. If you don’t understand what’s at stake, ask questions. Listen. Open your closed minds. Eradicate your own stupidity. Yes, I said it. I will never, ever claim to be an expert in anything, but I know I have the capacity to learn and do better. You do, too. The question is, do you have the guts to figure out that maybe—just maybe—you followed this treasonous orange traitor into a deep, dark hole of cult mentality?

For fucks sake, claw your way out of it.

It may already be too late, but I’ll go down screaming for this country I once believed in, for this place that welcomed the existence of my four children, for freedom of speech, for human rights, for equality, for dignity, for kindness, for opportunity, for those seeking a better life, for the trees and rivers and animals, for compassion, for a living wage, for education, for this little blue planet and all that depend on it for survival, for me, for you, for us.

Will you?