Bitch

Audio version now available.

“You a bitch!”

I answered a call from a restricted number after 10pm on Saturday, and I immediately wished I had not. It sounded like a young man, and my first thought was to applaud the gender fluidity of his insult. When I was a teen or a young adult, insulting another male was to call him a dick or a prick or an asshole. I would never have dreamed of calling another man a bitch. That open mindedness aside, I was concerned about the caller’s grammar. Maybe I am a bitch, but it’s definitely not correct that I a bitch.

The caller went on to call me an alcoholic pedophile. I have heard that what makes the Epstein file controversy different from, say, rape allegations from grown women, or taking life-saving medication from dying children, or a fundamental ignorance about who ultimately pays tariffs, is that the Epstein stuff has oozed from the attention of those who follow politics and understand civics to the mainstream. People who don’t have a problem with autocracy, as long as their guy is wearing the crown, draw the line at having sex with kids. It sounds like my caller learned a new word from scrolling YouTube.

As for alcoholic, I only wish my caller had used the past tense. I am fine with the label, but I was an alcoholic. I have done the crime and I served my time.

I didn’t sleep much Saturday night. I would like to say that the above analysis of grammar is what kept me staring at the blades of the ceiling fan, but it was the aggressive delivery of some really painful words. I got up several times and looked out my front window at the street to see if a posse was forming. I think I recognized the voice. I think it was a young man who faced some serious challenges in life, and who I had tried to help. I was clearly out over my skis. My attempted guidance turned into some pretty deep hatred, and I missed the transition entirely. White savior should be left to movie scripts, because it can backfire harshly in real life.

I usually sleep pretty well. I know to avoid caffeine and scary movies before bed. To that list I will now add answering calls from restricted numbers.

The next morning I got to hold a weeks-old baby. People who know me well know how much I love babies. I would choose changing dirty diapers over arguing about curfews anytime. That’s why her mom pumped her full of boob juice, then plopped her in my lap.

I cradled her in my left arm. I felt envy because she was going to get the post-meal siesta I often long for. I rubbed her back with the finger tips of my right hand, and she fell asleep. I rocked a sleeping baby, side to side, for about a half an hour. That experience contrasted favorably with answering a late-night call from a restricted number.

Also on the morning after the call, I got to watch someone I love and admire receive a very special gift. In monetary terms, the gift was quite generous, but that’s not what made it special. It was special because it was in recognition and gratitude for the recipient’s selfless and dedicated service to others. I had nothing to do with the gift itself, and I will receive no tangential benefit from it being bestowed on someone with whom I have a close relationship. I was a witness. Humans recognizing the humanity of another human. The experience filled me with love.

Also on the morning after the call, I learned of someone I know who has suffered from addiction and is divorcing his wife. The details are tragic. They include financial abuse and efforts to turn their confused teenage daughter against her mother. It is heartbreaking, and I can’t get the situation out of my mind. On that morning, I had the chance to give the mother a one-arm side hug. I don’t know her very well, and that’s all that seemed appropriate.

I squeezed hard with that one arm. I held her longer than she expected. Like trying to get the last dose of toothpaste from the tube, I was trying to squeeze empathy and compassion out of my body and into hers.

She is going through serious trauma, and not for the first time. Life for us humans would be so much easier if not for the humans who torment us, knowingly and otherwise. Life would also be impossible if not for some of the other humans. The nice ones. Life a bitch.

I would be lying if I told you that all of me wants to take the high road regarding my late-night call. There is only so much traction available up there, and part of me wants to slide off the pavement into the road-side ditch and express both my fear and my road rage. But the experiences of the morning after that call adjusted my attitude. Now that was a full morning. Especially for someone who was tired from correcting grammar.

Morning experiences are almost always better than late night encounters. Old people are thought to be early to bed and early to rise because they have lost their rizz and they lack energy. Legendary football coach and broadcaster, Herm Edwards, is well known for trying to keep NFL rookie orientation classes out of trouble by insisting emphatically that, “Nothing good ever happens after midnight.” Old people aren’t rizzless. We’ve learned the hard way to come in when it gets dark. That is why I argue about curfews, and choose instead of late nights, a morning full of side hugs.

I choose the interactions that don’t have to hide behind a restricted number.

Or is that, I am choose?

This essay is from the “Underlying Issues Series.” If you are leaving alcohol behind, but you’ve noticed that the unsavory parts of life are still right on your heels, please consider joining us in SHOUT Sobriety where we talk about this stuff.

SHOUT Sobriety