Uneven Progress

I woke up last Saturday morning with the same feeling I get anytime I wake up and realize a hundred people are about to descend upon the ranch. Waves of anxiety crash in. If the expected guests are strangers who’ve rented the space, I clench up wondering what they’ll complain about. If they are friends, I go into overdrive worrying I’ll forget someone’s name and/or face (a constant problem as I have face blindness) or that I won’t get to talk to everyone. 

This particular day’s crowd was a mixed bag of folks. I was co-hosting a fundraiser concert for a young Democratic candidate running for office in the Texas Legislature. My people were beside themselves with joy to hear James McMurtry and John Doe each play a solo set in an intimate setting. Her people, unfamiliar with these iconic performers, were there to eat and drink (a lot) and show their support. Both intentions were just fine, but I admit it was a curious mix. 

Some guy stopped me at some point and said, in a shitty-adjacent tone, something to the effect that I sure was nicer than my reputation. I was pretty sure I knew the root of this remark, but instead of speculating, I encouraged (baited) him to elaborate. It didn’t take him long to confirm my suspicions by making a reference to Shitville. To this day, thoughts of that cruel little town still sting, though I am relieved to report the intensity of the sting has diminished. 

As it happens, the young candidate we were there to support is running in opposition to the douchebag Trumpster who, along with his wife and another loser, headed up the parade to drive me out of that town six weeks after I’d arrived. Back then the douchebag was a city council member. Now he is a state rep. 

When we began planning this event months ago, I had one nonnegotiable stipulation. There was to be no smack talk at all about the other party and, more specifically, there was to be no mention of the guy’s name. I wanted to accentuate the positive, foster community, spread a little hope, and stay focused not on what I oppose but what I support, most especially women’s reproductive autonomy. 

Mostly things went to plan, though a few people broached the topic of what went down in Shitville. Fortunately, only the one guy was snarky about it. Also fortunately, times I did begin to recount details for the curious, my duties as hostess pulled me away and I never finished, which had the benefit of not self-triggering.

It used to take me a long time to tell the story. I spent months writing about it, making angry art about it, fantasizing revenge, contemplating lawsuits. Now I have an encapsulated version—about how one day the mayor knocked on my door and walked me over to the police station where the chief informed me my life was in danger and I would need police protection while the parade commenced. And how I responded that this was ridiculous and sounded like escalation. And how he assured me I was wrong and so it came to pass I had a cop on my porch while the posse did their thing, the commencement of a seven-month nonstop bullying campaign that culminated in my departure.

It is impossible to ever completely forget what those people did to me. But these days, when I do think about it, I focus on the fallout, the slow tempering of my mind over the course of the time it has taken to recover. Only now that I have regained my mental strength can I begin to take an accurate measure of the damage done, the psychological impact of being on the receiving end of so much sustained hate, which included death threats. 

When I returned to the ranch, I purchased a tiny cabin and had it moved out near the back pasture. I had a perfectly lovely house already, but my need to isolate was intense. I stayed in that cabin—which I now refer to as The ICU—for nine months, surrounded by endless arts and crafts supplies, five dogs, and open fields, rarely venturing out into the world. Then one day I woke up with a strong urge to be back in my real space. I wasn’t totally healed and plenty of scars remained. But I was improving. 

At the very end of last year, I read an opinion piece written by Congresswoman Debbie Dingell about her experience being personally targeted by Trump. Her words resonated as I recalled the bullying I’d dealt with. I wrote a comment offering my empathy and a brief overview of my experience. I was shocked when more than 4,000 readers gave my comment a like. The validation felt good. But things started to get weird in the thread. Other commenters began googling me, some called me a hero (which made me squirm because I am not a hero), and still others started sharing links to pages with more information about me. 

Among these were some video interviews I’d given while I was still in Shitville and shortly after I left. I had forgotten about these interviews given when I was in a fog far thicker than I understood. With great trepidation, I started clicking through. This was not a narcissistic exercise, listening to myself. Mostly I was curious to revisit my Then Self. 

I did not love what I encountered. Current Me observed Recent Past Me and winced. A lot. To clarify, it’s not like these interviews were so awful that I’d do anything to have them scrubbed from the Internet. But I saw myself busting out my inner Jersey Girl to trash talk my attackers. I lowered myself to their level. I wrestled with the pigs. 

Watching the interviews, I tried to summon some self-compassion. I knew I wasn’t seeing and hearing my so-called best self. Not even close. But I also understood what was behind the bluster. I was trying to puffer fish my way out of the corner I’d been backed into. As with so many other moments of anger, I could now see at the root of it was fear. Fear. And sorrow. 

That fear and sorrow went way beyond the personal. I don’t hate just that it happened to me. I hate that anymore hate feels ubiquitous. When I think about all of the rage and violence so thick in the air these days, all of the polarization, the way so many humans seem so hell bent on forcing their will on others—it brings me so far down.

So I have sought sundry antidotes that all share a proverbial thread: If you’re not part of the solution, you’re part of the problem. 

Immediately after watching those interviews, I made a resolution to be as kind as possible as often as possible from that moment on. I’ve always loved kindness, giving and receiving, but I’d been far too wrapped up in my own pain and fear and had strayed from the path of mindfully practicing daily kindness. Those interviews, and my reaction to them, have helped me to correct the course. My progress has been uneven and I’ve had plenty of backslides. Overall though, even factoring in the dips and plateaus, I continue to move in the right direction.

It’s entirely possible my drop-in-the-bucket efforts make no difference at all, not in the big picture. I set that thought aside when it tries to push its way in. I spend a couple of hours a week feeding the homeless. With only two or three exceptions, in the past few months I have pretty much stopped flipping off shitty drivers. And I continue to get excellent ongoing opportunities to be wildly pleasant to strangers in my role as a kooky docent. I recently had a text exchange with a stranger that felt like a report card from the universe, letting me know my kindness muscle is growing stronger. 

Despite my hostess anxiety, the snarky guy’s remarks, and a few little fires I had to stamp out, Saturday was a wonderful success. Given how red Texas is, given that our candidate’s opponent is backed by a half-million dollar PAC, we all understand her odds aren’t great. But what I’d most hoped for came to pass. It was a coming together of a community that won’t be bullied into complacency, that still believes change is possible, and that demonstrated positivity remains possible despite so much wickedness all around. 

NOTES:

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I have a ridiculous number of upcoming events, most of which are free. These include: a free writing workshop at the Hampton Branch Library tomorrow, May 21st; free arts and crafts at Susanna Dickinson Museum on May 31st; free hand-quilting lessons at the French Legation on June 1st. I also have a spot or two open in my Memoir Writing Workshops for Women—next session starts tomorrow. For details on any of these feel free to drop me a line. 

If you are in the Austin area and have clothes, linens, toiletries or reusable water bottles you would like to donate to help Austin’s Unhoused population, I’m happy to take that stuff off your hands. Email me to schedule a hand-off. 

And finally—please, please, please: Register to vote. Then vote. Thank you.