Bullies

I am waiting to donate blood this morning, when a long-time co-volunteer says that a mutual acquaintance would like some feedback on an experience I recently had and inquired about. “Of course,” I say, “happy to. How about after I finish donating?”

An hour later I am escorted to an office and proceed to be condescended to and slapped down in such a way that I begin to reel. Nothing has been easy for months now. I am tired and running on fumes, and now someone who has asked to meet with me is mansplaining in such a dismissive way that I have to cast back nearly 25 years to locate another moment in which I felt so utterly disrespected.

Then, I felt, as so many women do all too often, screamed and demeaned into fearful near-erasure. That was a boss, an alcoholic tyrant of epic ego, with whom the power differential made things even worse. He threw chairs at us, in pathetic fits of rage. I was 23 or 24, needed the job. All of us did. And so we tucked our heads down and did our best and left when each of us could.

Today, I am 46. I had just donated blood on behalf of this person’s organization, a member of which I’ve been for an exceptionally long time, a good 15x longer than they have. Determined not to tuck my head, spill a single tear, or lose my cool in front of this bully who clearly had zero interest in my concerns, questions, or feedback, I feigned post-donation light-headedness and excused myself. I can’t begin to tell you how long I was in there. 20 minutes? a bit more?

There is no chance this individual would have spoken to me like this if I were male. I was, and remain, furious beyond anything I have yet been able to articulate. I have cried more today than I have in a long while, not because I care what any pompous bully thinks of me —no, I refuse to be pushed to erasure anymore— but because the vehement unkindness was so disheartening and, really, just so unnecessary. It was shocking. I remain shocked.

I don’t understand pumping this kind of ugly energy into the world. Everything is hard enough. Most people I know are not, shall we say, thriving, and for the life of me I just don’t understand the end-game of awful behavior. Is it power? Is it hubris? A desperate desire to be right? A high experienced from punching down?

I’m tired of even trying to figure it out.