The Verdict is In

[Barbara Jordan explaining why injustice great and small really chaps my ass.]

Last Friday I received word, at long last, that I am not fired from my little part time museum job, the one I love, the one that has brought a lot of healing to my life post-lockdown and post-Shitville bullying trauma. It took the Powers That Be three weeks to make this decision, twenty-one days during which I had a lot of time to think. Like Billy in the Family Circus heading off to fulfill a task, my mind did not take the short route to the conclusion I ultimately reached. Instead, circuitously, it wandered in many directions as I awaited the verdict.

Because old habits die hard (if at all), I did, at the front end of all this thinking, indulge in a little bit of outrage. Maybe “succumbed to” is more accurate. While at no point was I allowed to know the content of the complaint made against me, I had a pretty good idea of what it probably said. If you missed part one of this story, as per my job description, I had informed a woman in the park behind the museum she needed to leash her dog. She refused. Having previously been screamed at, flipped off and challenged by others like her, and not wanting to be abused further, I called 911. The woman, displeased with this decision, poured some amount of energy into trying to “teach me a lesson” by taking official action against me, tracking down my name, supervisors I didn’t know I had, and apparently demanding my head on a platter.

Less out of compassion and more out of curiosity, one exercise I engaged in was to consider the point of view of this person who so desperately wanted me punished. If I had to guess, I’d say that what really chapped her was that, having been informed by the police that, yes, I was correct and, yes, the law required her to leash her dog, she felt robbed of a nearby place to let her dog run which, by her own repeated admission, she used “all the time” as her pet’s personal playground. In short, she was mad about her routine having been ruined. Okay, I can relate to that—I also don’t like when my routines are upended.

Contemplating her tenacity in trying to relieve me of my employment, I challenged myself to invite in uncomfortable memories of times I was the complainer. Years ago, during lockdown, some woke young worker at Wheatsville tried to kick me out because she didn’t like my t-shirt. I refused to leave. She got her manager who also tried to kick me out. I still refused to leave. Ultimately I had a very long, very unproductive, very loud phone “conversation” with the general manager who tepidly apologized and conceded both of his underlings had been out of line. Reflecting back on that call (actually there were two calls) I feel less vindicated and more displeased with how carried away I got. Exerting that much anger was just stupid and in the end the employee “won” because I have never returned to that establishment which, for thirty years prior to the confrontation, had been one of my favorite places to go.

To be clear, I’m not suggesting that my interaction with the off leash woman was some kind of karmic retribution for the Wheatsville Standoff. I called her out on actually breaking a law, whereas when I was called out, I was not in violation of any rule. Still, I did find it helpful to acknowledge times I myself have, in the heat of the moment, demanded some action in response to something that displeased me.

Next, I began mulling backup plans in case I did get the axe. While it is true this particular gig doesn’t earn me a ton of money, in my two years doing it, I have relaxed into counting on that income as an important part of my monthly budget. I have been very reluctant to turn up the volume on my officiant and wedding venue businesses, to coax them back to pre-lockdown levels. Because while the money involved in these endeavors makes my hourly job rate greatly pale, the stress that is sometimes involved can, at times, be equally exponential.

This Plan B strategizing provided a good reminder of how lucky I am not to have to rely on a single income stream and how fortunate I was (and am) knowing that, should the pink slip arriveth, aside from having to maybe endure a tight month or two, ultimately I would be just fine. This brought a good measure of gratitude.

Next—still more gratitude—I thought about all the ways the little job has improved my life. When I first started working at the museum in late 2022, I was still recovering from the Shitville bullies with their perpetual cruelty and death threats. I had, as a result of their protracted hate campaign, lost my way when it came to interacting with any humans beyond my closest circle. As I hoped it would, having an opportunity to interface with the public in a happy, mostly controlled setting allowed me to reinhabit parts of myself that had gone into hiding. I genuinely love being an ambassador for Austin museums and, more informally, for the city itself as I answer questions about the city’s history as well as requests from out-of-town visitors for insider information on how to have the most fun.

But what has had the greatest impact in the aftermath of this whole ordeal is that, as it was ongoing, I stumbled upon an Instagram reel that offered profound insight into my initial anger at the woman trying to get me fired. The topic was ADHD, which I have, and the nugget offered was that often people with this disorder have an outsized reaction to injustice. Which, in turn, got me thinking about mangoes.

I’m deathly allergic to mangoes, though this wasn’t always the case. I used to love eating them. Then, one day, I had a reaction and painful blisters formed around my mouth. I did not want to believe the mango I ate caused this, because I didn’t want to give up mangoes. So I ate another mango. This time, my entire face blew up and my eyes swelled nearly shut. My love of mangoes did not matter. I could stop eating them or I could risk making myself really sick, possibly dying.

Injustice has always outraged me and I have spent a good deal of my life fighting it. Now, here was some information suggesting my odd brain wiring was creating a sort of Mango Effect. Increased exposure to injustice hasn’t improved my tolerance for it. Quite the opposite. Merely being in the presence of injustice causes me to break out in a metaphorical rash, one that gets worse as time goes on.

Historically I have not been particularly good at choosing my battles. But in light of the election, and as Inauguration Day approaches, I am facing the hard truth that injustice seems to be far more the rule than the exception in today’s political climate. Maybe it’s always been that way. Maybe we’re all just feeling it more deeply now. Whatever the case, I am going to have to figure out a way to turn a blind eye toward some injustice—especially the kind fueled by entitlement—not out of complacency but out of self-preservation.

Toward this end, I recently had an unwanted opportunity to test out my new, very shaky quest. Returning from a work break, I was charged by an aggressive off leash dog that got within two inches of my leg, teeth bared, angrily barking at me like there was no tomorrow. I felt real fear. But I kept my mouth shut because I had been instructed that monitoring the off leash people is no longer part of my job description. Anger burned inside of me as the woman accompanying this dog offered no apology, seemed to think it was well within her uncontrolled dog’s right to menace the public at large and, in the moment, me in particular.

On the bright side, that Instagram reel sent me down a rabbit hole exploring the correlation between Injustice Outrage and ADHD. As I’ve noted many times, I don’t use diagnostic labels as crutches and excuses. The main reason I like knowing my afflictions is because once problems are identified there arrive opportunities for solutions. I love expanding my emotional tool kit and was pleased to find a readily available antidote to my suffering.

It turns out that a very good way to manage Injustice Outrage is to proactively work toward justice. The example offered—serving the homeless—resonated. I’ve been volunteering for a year now doing just that and it’s true that when I am working to ease societal ills, I pour as much positive energy into this endeavor as I pour negative energy into resenting randomly encountered injustice.

I began contemplating additional volunteer opportunities that might relieve the helplessness I feel in the face of (at least) the next four years. A friend of mine reminded me of a program that really speaks to me—facilitating writing workshops for women in prison. I did similar work, decades ago, with girls incarcerated at a juvenile detention center. It was hard work. It was so rewarding. So I have submitted my application and crossed my fingers that they’ll find me a good fit. I don’t imagine this opportunity will completely soothe me the next time I witness injustice, but I hope it will help prevent a full blown allergic reaction when I do.

NOTES:

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