I’m probably not going to win a lot of friends with this post and probably make some enemies. But it’s something I think needs to be said. And 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. 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.” There was more but I stopped listening and focused on my slip.

I noticed that someone was tapping my paper impatiently to get my attention. It was the volunteer who was previously complaining about the, I’m assuming man, mansplaining something to her. I was already a little put off because I was wondering if I was going to be a target. I kept it all business. The conversation was unremarkable which I was thankful for. I gave the woman my slip and took my seat. I was getting excited to see some stories and maybe be a part of the conversation.

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.

I was a social worker on Mass & Cass by BMC’s methedone clinic, working with the chronically homeless and drug addicted, full of enthusiasm. Part of my training was watching my regional director rub the stumps of a client’s legs with ointment because they were cut off due to being necrotic. I was losing enthusiasm. The next was about a man moving like those windsock guys on the sides of roads, advertising things. He was also yelling gibberish at the top of his lungs, while gripping two fist-fulls of syringes. The last was the redeeming story about a client who needed a new phone because his girlfriend drugged him, stole his belongings, trashed his apartment, then went down two floors, and did it again to the guys best friend. But the guy 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 yet 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 had a mental illness, or drinking problem 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.

Soapbox Speach

I want to make it very clear 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 this isn’t a competition even though we were being scored. I’m also very liberal. But I often keep quiet because I don’t want to make others uncomfortable with story like the one above because I’m white and their stories involve them being abused by white men. But the two people with the lowest scores were both white men.

What I lacked in delivery the other white story teller had in spades. 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.

Double Standards

I’m not trying to be disrespectful of anyone else’s experience that night. It just makes me sad and scared. We were gathering that night to celebrate hope. Overcoming diversity, extreme situations and being the better for it. But I felt like I was a hopeless 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 such a progressive population.

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.

Supporting Groups

I only have like seven friends and a five family members. Sadly we’ve lost many of our ranks to drugs and mental illness. But what’s harmed us more than the drugs is the neglect from our families, and lack of support from society. This is why telling our stories is so powerful. Being heard and feeling supported.

I’ve held at least 17 jobs in the past decade without advancing in my career, and not for a lack of ambition, but because I wasn’t willing to conform to the prejudice values that 2. I paid off $126K worth of consumer debt and student loans making minimum wage, and am still in the hole for $40K. When I got divorced I took on the entire debt from our marriage. I’ve been fired on the spot for no reason, and for reasons made up. I’ve reported insurance fraud on a CNA company that had me falsify document home visits that never happened. And later I endured peripheral racism when my boss, who was a woman of color from Nigeria, exclaimed very loudly that the reason the country is in financial ruin was do to “greedy Jews”. My step-mom is Jewish so that hit hard.

I was fired from my social work position that I told the story about above, because I tried to apologize three times to a woman of color, who was offended by me posting a picture of the Sleepy Time Bear saying, “Live Slow Die Cozy” in our group chat. She chastised me, saying 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. They all screamed at me, “Why did you have to apologize!” My union rep, Ted, 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.

I could go on, but I don’t want to fill this post with negative experiences. If you’re curious about other instances, you can read this post, and this one.

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 reveling in a white man’s hurt and loneliness, consider this: First, being a white male in leftist Massachusetts who wants to help, but consistently hears stories about how horrible I am, makes me the minority, and scared. And second, 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 we proclaim is right, which I still believe is right, and I have zero support because I supposedly have all the power and support.

I’m a little angry, I’ll admit that. Because I’ve become the minority in a culture that touts diversity and inclusion, as long as you’re not a straight white male, regardless of your motivations and actions. It’s confusing because it adds a layers or racism to a complex problem. Before those that would say, how does it feel (not asking, but telling me),” I’d respond with a line from a Dead Kennedy’s song, “Where Do ya Draw the Line”- “Where do ya draw the line, I’m not telling you, I’m asking you,” between inclusion and revenge. I’m not going to change. I’m still going to stand for acceptance and inclusion for all.

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 “feel good ” or “acceptable” forms of adversity. Where all the problems are solved and the underdog wins, everyone claps and goes home happy. But the problems aren’t solved. And the “villain” is the underdog and ignored.

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

I really hope this post lands as intended. Until next time remember, it’s not a competition. Peace & Thanks for Reading : )🏔️🌙