WARNING: CONTAINS COARSE LANGUAGE
“Although I am Caucasian—” is without question: the worst opening to a story I’ve ever read. It’s not profound—it’s ignorant. The writer of the vile words attempted to compare the challenges of a physical disability to being—I’m certain you get the gist.
The litmus test for writing about sensitive subject matter might be best if you asked yourself a simple question before hitting post: Would it be prudent to start a story with: Although I am black?”
I vent. I read the story containing those words this week. I wanted to see if I could possibly spin them. Let's spin.
The litmus test for writing about sensitive subject matter might be best if you asked yourself a simple question before hitting post: Would it be prudent to start a story with: Although I am black?”
I vent. I read the story containing those words this week. I wanted to see if I could possibly spin them. Let's spin.
Jody Goods is a steroid-abusing, opioid-using, alcohol-swilling, profanity-spilling, violent racist. He scares me. At times he works for us as a temp worker. His strength is an asset on construction sites—when he keeps his trap shut.
In our office, if a worker shouts out racist, homophobic, misogynistic or anything highlighting an “ism” —I do not hesitate to shut the conversation down + stamping the worker unemployable for the day. When Jody espouses his disgusting blame-the-world-for-who-I’ve-become views—I shamefully, cower.
In our office, if a worker shouts out racist, homophobic, misogynistic or anything highlighting an “ism” —I do not hesitate to shut the conversation down + stamping the worker unemployable for the day. When Jody espouses his disgusting blame-the-world-for-who-I’ve-become views—I shamefully, cower.
The sun scorched Vancouver on this late spring day; hinting summer would soon come. The morning rush ended. A rare calm immersed the office. At 9:10, I was left alone with the next co-worker scheduled to arrive at 10. I enjoyed being alone + being able to unwind from the frantic pace of sending out over 100 workers to their jobs during the morning crush. I sat back in my chair in the empty office, not thinking.
I heard the office door open and then slowly creek shut. My desk is offset from our work counter, not allowing me a view of the entrance. I glanced up to see who’d come in—5-seconds passed—nobody arrived at the counter—I took a deep breath and relaxed—alone once more.
When I looked up again a few seconds later, the counter gate opened. Jody Goods stomped behind the counter. He paced two steps away from me swaying. He pivoted and swayed toward me. Sweat poured from his skin. A toxic acidic stink filled the air. He mumbled. His cheeks pulsed in such a way it looked like his face was trying to swallow itself. He tweaked so violently his face looked pixelated. He mumbled more, stuttering, agitated, confused; yet strangely, full of purpose. The only words I could make out were, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I must; I must, I will. I’m sorry.”
I calmly leaned back in my chair. “Are you okay?”
He had a sheen about him, caused by the sweat dripping from his face. He stood up, stumbling toward me and said once more, “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry. I will get you help. Are you okay?”
I heard the office door open and then slowly creek shut. My desk is offset from our work counter, not allowing me a view of the entrance. I glanced up to see who’d come in—5-seconds passed—nobody arrived at the counter—I took a deep breath and relaxed—alone once more.
When I looked up again a few seconds later, the counter gate opened. Jody Goods stomped behind the counter. He paced two steps away from me swaying. He pivoted and swayed toward me. Sweat poured from his skin. A toxic acidic stink filled the air. He mumbled. His cheeks pulsed in such a way it looked like his face was trying to swallow itself. He tweaked so violently his face looked pixelated. He mumbled more, stuttering, agitated, confused; yet strangely, full of purpose. The only words I could make out were, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I must; I must, I will. I’m sorry.”
I calmly leaned back in my chair. “Are you okay?”
He had a sheen about him, caused by the sweat dripping from his face. He stood up, stumbling toward me and said once more, “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry. I will get you help. Are you okay?”
I called for help. I thought Jody’s life story was about to end by overdose. A man I feared, had been reduced to broken, hate-filled, shell of himself. I needed to be terrified. I remained calm. Five minutes passed—it felt like hours. Jody apologised once more and spat out, “I need to do this.” His words splashed on my shirt.
I heard a tapping on the front door. I walked from my desk to the door, unlocked it, in marched two paramedics.
Jody stood up, looked at the paramedics, his face swallowed by defeat, his twitching slowed. The paramedics knew him by name. They administered an injection that quickly brought Jody back to a semblance of living. They escorted him to the door asking him if he’d like to go to the hospital. He declined, turned left, and began zig-zagging north up Main Street.
Moments later, Kyle, my friend and co-worker, returned to the office. I shared the morning story. We went to the video surveillance feed and replayed the event. When Jody had entered the office, he paused, scanned the room, slowly paced to the counter, glanced my way (without me seeing him), returned to the front door, and locked it.
A twinge of fear shot through my veins.
We rarely leave office staff alone in the office. We employ a diverse crew. I am Caucasian. I am not a small man.
Jody Goods is (was?) a steroid-abusing, opioid-using, alcohol-swilling, profanity-spilling, violent racist.
Although I am Caucasian--
I heard a tapping on the front door. I walked from my desk to the door, unlocked it, in marched two paramedics.
Jody stood up, looked at the paramedics, his face swallowed by defeat, his twitching slowed. The paramedics knew him by name. They administered an injection that quickly brought Jody back to a semblance of living. They escorted him to the door asking him if he’d like to go to the hospital. He declined, turned left, and began zig-zagging north up Main Street.
Moments later, Kyle, my friend and co-worker, returned to the office. I shared the morning story. We went to the video surveillance feed and replayed the event. When Jody had entered the office, he paused, scanned the room, slowly paced to the counter, glanced my way (without me seeing him), returned to the front door, and locked it.
A twinge of fear shot through my veins.
We rarely leave office staff alone in the office. We employ a diverse crew. I am Caucasian. I am not a small man.
Jody Goods is (was?) a steroid-abusing, opioid-using, alcohol-swilling, profanity-spilling, violent racist.
Although I am Caucasian--
I’m living in denial. It’s been a day since being freed from the pains of the ER. I am now an outpatient, on call for a gauntlet of tests. I’m not well. I resist admitting it. Stupid.
In the coming days I will be summoned to have my brain examined, MRI, gadgets hooked to me, blood, blood, blood + doctor after doctor after doctor, weekly. I pretend nothings wrong.
At work, I set up a worker for the day. I provide him with a map. I try to write a bus number on the map. My brain sends the signal to my hand. I can only scribble. I try to sign a copy of my memoir. I have trouble holding the pen. When I walk, I feel like I’m floating. This part of the story takes place in January—it will take me to mid-March to admit I suffered a catastrophic brain injury, and my body is struggling desperately to reset. I’m not sure it’s resetting.
Life is dramatic—this is my drama. I have become stoic, except of course for this sentence—a man in the throes of stoicism would likely not identify himself that way.
I must believe tomorrow will bring better health.
I don’t want to lose who I am!
In the coming days I will be summoned to have my brain examined, MRI, gadgets hooked to me, blood, blood, blood + doctor after doctor after doctor, weekly. I pretend nothings wrong.
At work, I set up a worker for the day. I provide him with a map. I try to write a bus number on the map. My brain sends the signal to my hand. I can only scribble. I try to sign a copy of my memoir. I have trouble holding the pen. When I walk, I feel like I’m floating. This part of the story takes place in January—it will take me to mid-March to admit I suffered a catastrophic brain injury, and my body is struggling desperately to reset. I’m not sure it’s resetting.
Life is dramatic—this is my drama. I have become stoic, except of course for this sentence—a man in the throes of stoicism would likely not identify himself that way.
I must believe tomorrow will bring better health.
I don’t want to lose who I am!
LEVITY BREAK (borrowed from “I SAW YOU”)
Pinked Haired Lady
I saw a woman. I am a man.
We passed like ships. First passing Davie/Howe (not). I would love to take you to dinner. You can usually find me at Blend at 3 PM.
I AM OLD GUY
Pinked Haired Lady
I saw a woman. I am a man.
We passed like ships. First passing Davie/Howe (not). I would love to take you to dinner. You can usually find me at Blend at 3 PM.
I AM OLD GUY
