I’m probably not going to win a lot of friends with this post and probably make some enemies. But it’s something I’d like to be considered. The reason why is because I’m scared and lonely. And I don’t think I’m alone. I’m gonna jump right in by setting the stage with a story.

The Moth at the PEM, Theme; Hope

I don’t get out much. I have epilepsy so the places I can get to are limited, and I don’t have many friends. I’m very broke, which is limiting, but I saw that there was a Moth being hosted by the PEM in Salem, which is one town over from me, and the tickets were only $15 or $25. So it was a budget friendly event. I splurged on one ticket, and was excited about doing something out of the ordinary and having a little fun.

The Big Day

The event was July 23rd, and when I arrived at the PEM it was a pleasant atmosphere. I’m an introvert, which means that large groups of people are somewhat off putting for me. But the chatter wasn’t too loud, even with the acoustics being designed to amplify voices. So I took a seat and waited for the event to start.

On the seats were little strips of white paper with some text on them. I said to myself, “Ok, I’ll bite.” The paper explained that I could contribute a short summary of a story anonymously. So I put an experience I had when I was a social worker, about a guy getting drugged by his girlfriend, and turned it in.

When I got to the table the volunteer who took my slip explained to me that I could enter to tell a story. I’d never done anything like that so I figured why not. While I was filling out the slip I overheard another volunteer say in a biting tone, “Oh I just LOVE IT when I get MANSPLAINED to.” That hurt a bit, but I can understand how that would be frustrating so I finished filling out my slip and sat down.

Story Time

After about ten minutes, the auditorium went quiet and the stories began. They were good too. Lots of seasoned story tellers. I was nervous though. “What if they call my name,” kept popping up in my mind as I was formulating my story just in case I was called to the stage. And it’s a good thing I did.

They called my name right before the intermission, and when I took the stage I was nervous. But I felt good about being in a place with liberal values, among them being acceptance. I felt a sense of belonging which took the edge off the anxiety. I won’t recount the whole story but I’ll give you the highlights.

The Story

I was a social worker on Mass & Cass by BMC’s methadone clinic, working with the chronically homeless and drug addicted. Part of my training was watching my regional director rub the stumps of a client’s legs with ointment because they were removed due to living on the streets. The next was about a man moving like those windsock guys on the sides of roads, advertising things. He was yelling gibberish while holding what looked like a lot of syringes. The last was the redeeming story about a client who needed a new phone because his girlfriend drugged him, stole his belongings, destroyed his apartment, then went down two floors, and did the same thing to his friend. But my client still wanted a new phone to rebuild his life. Even after what he’d gone through. And that gave me hope.

I didn’t think I’d be able to fill the five minute limit, but it went by quicker than I expected. I got a polite round of applause and took my seat. The judges gave me the lowest score so far, but I figured it was because it was the first time I’d told a story on stage and my delivery needed to be worked on.

Intermission

During intermission I got up to go to the bathroom and something funny happened. People wouldn’t make eye contact with me. They would stare down as I passed. As though they had done something wrong. Even the people who thanked me for my service felt a little forced. Like it was the “right” thing to do. I could be wrong, and I really don’t want to assume the worst, but it was hard not to feel like I was that family member that nobody talks about. There were a half dozen or so who came right up to me and talked about addiction in their lives. And two people I knew from around town who were unfazed. But most people’s everted eyes told me that I wasn’t one of them, and that I didn’t belong. It hurt and I cried on the walk home.

Realizing I’m Alone

I’d like to say that I am not trying to belittle anyone else’s experience. I enjoyed all the other story tellers stories, and they went through some harrowing events. And also, pain isn’t a competition even though we were being scored. I also consider myself very liberal. But I often keep quiet because I don’t want to make others uncomfortable with stories like the one above. Mostly because I’m white and their stories involve them being abused by white men.

I lacked in delivery, that’s for sure. And I thought my story was pretty good. But the low scores, and me being treated as though I were a ghost was confusing. And the other story tellers being surrounded by the audience members with words of support and affirmation during break, made me feel like an outsider. I was also on edge, worrying about how I spoke to people for fear of hurting someone like the woman who felt she was being mansplained to. It felt scary. It was then I realized that I didn’t belong.

Where Do I Belong?

I’m not trying to be disrespectful of anyone else’s experience that night and hope I was seen as being supportive because that’s how I felt and how I thought I was acting. And I was sad, scared and lonely after telling my story. We were gathering that night to celebrate hope. Overcoming diversity, extreme situations and being the better for it. But I felt very much the outsider. A foreigner to all these people who hold acceptance as a foundational value. And living in Massachusetts, which I often joke about being the education capital of the world, I’m surprised and saddened by the lack of acceptance by my progressive contemporaries.

Supporting Groups

I understand the tension that is happening in America right now with I.C.E., the bigotry being disseminated from the White House and the violence in the Middle East, among others. And I’m not trying to deny that many of these actions and events were planned, and put into action by white men with lots of money and power. People are hurting at the hands of white men. There’s no denying that.

I only have a few friends and family. Sadly we’ve lost many of our ranks to drugs and mental illness. But what I believe harms us more than the drugs (and most likely the reason for them), is the neglect and lack of support from our families, and society. This is why telling our stories is so powerful. Being heard and feeling supported.

I was fired from the social work position that I told the story about above because I tried to apologize three times to a woman of color. They were offended by me posting a picture of the Sleepy Time Bear saying, “Live Slow Die Cozy” in our group chat. She said that I was inappropriate because our clients can’t (live slow die cozy), and that I was speaking from a place of white privilege.

Their were nine people at the table the day I got fired representing many different cultures and ethnicities, all screaming, “Why did you have to apologize!” My union rep said, “no, they can do that. It’s normal.” Toward the end of the firing they said the equivalent of, “what do you have to say for yourself!” I told them I needed to leave the room for a moment to gather myself because I was so scared I was shaking.

We Need More Support Groups

I don’t have the answers. I know I don’t want to hurt and be lonely. Nobody does. And for those saying how does it feel, consider this. Being a white male in leftist Massachusetts who wants to help, but consistently hears stories about how terrible I am, makes me the minority, sad and scared. And pain is not a competition. I have less opportunity than I used to, and that’s a good thing. The playing fields are more even now than they ever were. My friend who is a lesbian is probably making close to six figures and I couldn’t be happier for her. And on the flipside I’ve been fired multiple time for trying to stick up for inclusion and kindness, what I believe is the right thing to do and I also have very little support because of my demographic.

I’m a little angry, I’ll admit that. Because I’ve become the minority in a culture that touts diversity and inclusion. But being a straight white male I feel excluded, regardless of my motivations and actions. It’s confusing because it adds more layers to racism, an already complex problem. I’m not going to change. I’m still going to stand for acceptance and inclusion for all, and I’ll use my privilege to help others. All I ask is others do the same or at least keep an open mind.

Pack It In

What I experienced last night at the Moth was scary. There are few times I felt more alone than I did that night. I could say that we all need to be more inclusive, and leave it at that, but then we open ourselves to the polite version of overcoming adversity. Where all the problems are solved and the underdog wins. But the problems aren’t solved. And the “bad guy” is the underdog, and ignored.

We won’t be inclusive until every voice is heard with kindness. Excluding straight, white men is the same as someone saying, “I don’t see race.” When whole demographics are left out because historically they’ve been labeled as abusers or racist, we’re also excluding the allies from those groups. Those who can help do what’s right by role-modeling acceptance, to those who’ve historically been the abusers. We’ve all been abusers at some point to some degree. And without reconciliation, empowering movements run the risk of become racist entities.

I really hope this post lands as intended. I’m not point the finger at anyone, I just want to be recognized a someone who wants to help. Until next time, peace & Thanks for Reading : )🏔️🌙