You Don't Know Me

 Auhor's note: This piece stemmed from my reaction to the daily shootings/mass shootings/beatings, etc. that currently happen unabated in the U.S. My reaction each time is, "What is wrong with people?" This is my attempt to figure out the mindset of those who do violence.

You don’t know me. I’m nobody. I've been told that often enough to know it’s true.

            You come from a family where arguments between parents are the norm. You’re not a huggy-kissy family. “I love you” isn’t something said. If you say it, you’re looked at as if you’ve just announced you’re from planet Earth.

            “Well, of course we love each other; we’re family.”

So, you choke it down, longing to be swept up in a hug warm enough to take your breath away. But it never happens. And sometimes choking down the words makes you feel like you're dying.

            Maybe you grew up fearing Totalitarian regimes and the threat that someone would drop the bomb on us, or perhaps that a plane you’re on might be hijacked and used as a weapon. 

            Your religion was of an angry God of Commandments: Thou shalt not. A God who threw Satan at you like a banana peel that could slip you up and trick you into sin. And the faithful, those who had chosen Jesus as their "personal" Savior, prayed over you in the hope that you would accept their version of Jesus. And they cursed you if you didn't.

             Maybe you were accused by teachers for things you didn't do. Maybe your parents blamed you for whatever troubles happened. Perhaps your classmates saw this and marked you as an easy target, never knowing the real you. And eventually the real you died.

                You don't know me.

             Maybe friends or younger relatives that you knew fairly well were nice enough in the presence of adults, but then said things that stabbed you in the soul when the adults weren’t around. You would never let them know. Rule 1: Never, ever give someone the satisfaction of knowing they’d hurt you. If you did, they won.

They were like the bullies on the street, in the schoolyard, in the lunchroom and in the school bathroom. The so-called friends who would pick a fight just so you would go away.

There were always bullies. Sometimes they took your lunch. Sometimes they simply called you names. But sometimes they threw rocks at you, stole from you or told lies about you, just to make you squirm. You could never understand how they knew you were the one they could bully, how they could see that target on you. And if they saw your pain, you made their day.

And so you played alone, digging in the sandbox until you dug too deep, and one of those hairy bugs with a million legs came scampering out of the hole and frightened your little self, forcing you to play somewhere safer.

            “I’m your friend,” someone says. Yes, they are, in forced places like the school yard or at a party where they socialize with you until the burden of your friendship proves too much, and they excuse themselves to talk to people of lighter acquaintance.

            And yet, and yet, and yet. They consider you a good friend, even though they’ve left you alone with a beer, to wander around, drinking too much to forget that you don’t know how to socialize. They’ve left you floundering. That makes you grin. You picture a flounder at a party: a fish out of water. That’s who you are. And you have a private laugh at that.

            You don’t know me.

            There were other relatives, too, the ones you don’t know so well or at all. The grandparents, who always seem vexed at something. The great aunts and uncles you’re expected to know even though they haven’t seen you since you were a baby. All get the obligatory kiss. Sit down, be quiet, don’t break anything, and for heaven’s sake, don’t touch anything with sticky fingers.

            The mother says the grandmother doesn’t mind having you visit since you behave. There are other grandchildren who jump on her furniture or open drawers they shouldn’t.

            But that doesn’t sound like TV grandmothers, or ones on social media who think grandchildren are the best part of life, who distribute hugs and kisses for the slightest cause, who freely say, “I love you.”

            And the great aunts and uncles you’re obliged to kiss and pretend you know,  the step-relatives, what of them? Didn’t parents teach you not to talk to strangers, not to take candy from strangers or get in their cars? These are strangers to you, yet you’re obliged to bestow the Judas kiss on the cheek.

            And yet, and yet, and yet, it isn’t the stranger who presents the danger. It is in the home. Come, take a look at this, and while you obey to observe some photo or new discovery, what was once a casual arm over the shoulder becomes an unwelcomed grope. And you are not allowed to say no because it’s a parent. The Commandment God says you must obey your parents. And you do not have the right to say no. Disobedience would surely  condemn you to hell. You stop believing in a future hell because it's here, now.

            Your one sanctuary, your room, is violated late at night when you awaken to find groping hands invading your clothes. He realizes you’re awake when you try to escape those hands. They are withdrawn and he soundlessly leaves, perhaps hoping that you’ll think it was just a dream.

            And you say nothing. Who can you tell? Who would believe you? The mother must know. She married him. She knows what he is like, so she is to blame as well. She didn’t protect you. Rule 1: never ever give anyone the satisfaction of knowing they’ve hurt you. Rule 2: never ever take private family business to outsiders. Rule 3: if someone has done something to you, you must have done something to deserve it.

            And yet, and yet and yet, other people don’t seem to have these experiences of family.

            Maybe he has a nickname, like Sly Fox. Various people call him that. You don’t know where the name came from, but they laugh when they mention it. They know.

            You become a cutter. Not with a razor blade; that would be a sin, and surely destine you for that other hell. No blood must be drawn. Instead, some sharp-edged plastic toy that, when rubbed roughly against the childish skin, will cause friction burns or blisters.

            It’s supposed to let the anger out, but all it does is cause more pain. So, you stop. Plenty of others are happy to inflict pain without you  helping them. Instead, the anger builds.

            You don’t know me.

            Anger can do many things. It could make you give up and end things. It could make you take revenge on even the tiniest perceived slight. It could make you take vengeance on those others consider innocents. After all, you were once an innocent. You were the one that all of the bullies saw as a target. But do two wrongs or a multitude of wrongs ever make a right? Do you have the skill to reason that far, or are you simply an instrument of vengeance?

            You secretly wonder if you’re like him. That suspicion is like that furry bug with all of the legs, living in the pit of your soul. You don’t want it to come out; you don’t want it to be there. You don’t want to be anything like him or the bullies. Sometimes, something clumsy you say or do – or even think – makes you suspect you are like him. If you are, you deserve everything that’s done to you. And maybe you want to take as many people out with you as you can.

            Perhaps one person holding out a hand, saying, “I’m your friend,” can make all the difference. Perhaps the meaning of “I’m your friend” is calling the authorities to tell them about things you’ve done or said before you wreak your vengeance.

            And yet, and yet, and yet.

            You don’t know me.