Random Acts of Malice
I was riding the L-train yesterday when a man, on his way to the exit, dropped a folded piece of paper onto my lap. This one:
"Low-Self Esteem Girl" (sic). A folded-up photocopy of a sharpie drawing of a vaguely human figure with notes and arrows pointing to various flaws. "Too many piercings" was one. "Short hair dyed no color in nature" was another, accompanied by "those stupid cuffs," "fat sticking out," and "gladly disrobes in public or internet."
I'd been handed a personal attack on... my appearance. By a stranger who knew nothing about me other than what I looked like. And it wasn't even a PERSONALIZED personal attack, but a mean laundry list of things that describe many punks, freaks, sluts, fat chicks, geeks and hipsters.
My first thought was that this was some kind of twisted sociological experiment, so I looked around to see if someone else was watching for my reaction. No one. I glanced at the paper to see if it was an ill-advised advertisement for a blog or an indie film. Nothing.
I spent the rest of the train ride home upset. I got home and Googled, assuming that giving vile notes to girls on the subway was something this asshole does on a regular basis. Nothing.
Then I sat and stewed and I got angry.
I would like to say that I didn't care about his little note, but it stung. I spent too much of my life being ashamed of who I was. For a decade I was convinced that I was a fat, ugly fake who'd never fall in love. I knew that everyone around me was constantly judging me and finding me to be unworthy, and this fucktard pushed all those buttons again. I felt fragile on that train, with my heart beating in my esophagus as I tried to swallow the shame of being me, just like I did every day when I was a sophomore in high school.
Except now I am twenty-eight, not fifteen. I fucking know that I am real and in love and that who I am is pretty awesome. It took me the first 25 years of my life to realize that I've always been an altruistic, optimistic, badass punk on the inside. In the past three years my arms have exploded with tattoos, and with every inking I've felt more like myself. Now that I'm learning to love myself, I've been rewarded with countless opportunities to love others. It's still a process; it was just the other day that I looked at my ass and realized that it is big AND fantastic. (Despite what Cosmo might tell you, the two are not mutually exclusive. Say it with me, now. My fantastic ass is big! My big ass is fantastic!)
I am finally the person that I have always been, and there's no way I'm going to let some single-serving lowlife shake my faith in that. Because, what? He didn't like my sweater? My lip piercing? My vintage British army jacket? There is nothing about those things, or me, that in any way affected this man's life or somehow gave him the right to thrust his judgements upon me.
That fine specimen of humanity hauled ass off that subway train because he knew that if he gave me half a chance, he'd get more than a piece of my mind. But he ran like the little boy that he is, so you all get that piece and it goes like this.
Dear dirtbag. You are nothing but a coward. You ran because you knew that if you'd stayed I would have told you that you are nothing but an overgrown bully.
You have no right to comment on my appearance. I am not here to meet your narrow, fascist beauty standards. This may be news to you, but women do not exist for your pleasure and our existence does not invite your critique.
You can go join your brothers over there who say Marilyn Monroe was fat while feeding their own beer guts. Go on, because I'm drawing a line here, and over there is where we put hateful, small people like you. You can come out of time-out when I say so, and I'm not going to say so until you write, "I'm an ugly, insignificant bag of dicks who puts others down to feel better about my own worthlessness" one thousand times. One thousand is a big number, so if I were you I'd start writing.
Look, loser, I am sorry that some tattooed, pierced, quirky, crazy-colored hair girl who wore scarves without a coat turned you down. I really am, except I'm not, because every girl and woman between now and the next coming of Jesus Christ will turn you down. Women have exceptional senses of smell, and we can identify your Eau du Jerk from a mile away.
You are nothing. You have no power over me and since I cannot say this to your face, I'm saying it to everyone so that when they encounter you or any of your ilk, they know that your petty insults mean nothing and come from a place of total and complete insecurity.
Somewhere out there is a total dirtbag who was riding the L train that left Union Square for Brooklyn at around 6:30PM on 11/9/2010. Pale white male, mid thirties, short light hair that was a bit thin on the top, tall and a touch on the scrawny side, wearing greenish pants and glasses. Was already on the train at Union Square and got off at Graham, Grand or Montrose. I suspect he makes a habit of dropping these notes in strangers' laps, so if you've encountered him, let me know either in the comments or via email. I would love to have his name and face to post here so that the world can know exactly what sort of human being he is.
And if that pile of shit or anyone else tries to make you feel like you're somehow bad or ugly or worthless because you're not what THEY think you should be, send them my way. I know you are awesome and I know I am awesome and I am also really, really pissed so I will be happy to educate anyone who doubts that through public humiliation and strategic CIA interrogation techniques.
I hope the next time this douchebag pulls this stunt, the doors close before he can escape and his intended target kicks him in the nuts.
Love,
Beth
"Low-Self Esteem Girl" (sic). A folded-up photocopy of a sharpie drawing of a vaguely human figure with notes and arrows pointing to various flaws. "Too many piercings" was one. "Short hair dyed no color in nature" was another, accompanied by "those stupid cuffs," "fat sticking out," and "gladly disrobes in public or internet."
I'd been handed a personal attack on... my appearance. By a stranger who knew nothing about me other than what I looked like. And it wasn't even a PERSONALIZED personal attack, but a mean laundry list of things that describe many punks, freaks, sluts, fat chicks, geeks and hipsters.
My first thought was that this was some kind of twisted sociological experiment, so I looked around to see if someone else was watching for my reaction. No one. I glanced at the paper to see if it was an ill-advised advertisement for a blog or an indie film. Nothing.
I spent the rest of the train ride home upset. I got home and Googled, assuming that giving vile notes to girls on the subway was something this asshole does on a regular basis. Nothing.
Then I sat and stewed and I got angry.
I would like to say that I didn't care about his little note, but it stung. I spent too much of my life being ashamed of who I was. For a decade I was convinced that I was a fat, ugly fake who'd never fall in love. I knew that everyone around me was constantly judging me and finding me to be unworthy, and this fucktard pushed all those buttons again. I felt fragile on that train, with my heart beating in my esophagus as I tried to swallow the shame of being me, just like I did every day when I was a sophomore in high school.
Except now I am twenty-eight, not fifteen. I fucking know that I am real and in love and that who I am is pretty awesome. It took me the first 25 years of my life to realize that I've always been an altruistic, optimistic, badass punk on the inside. In the past three years my arms have exploded with tattoos, and with every inking I've felt more like myself. Now that I'm learning to love myself, I've been rewarded with countless opportunities to love others. It's still a process; it was just the other day that I looked at my ass and realized that it is big AND fantastic. (Despite what Cosmo might tell you, the two are not mutually exclusive. Say it with me, now. My fantastic ass is big! My big ass is fantastic!)
I am finally the person that I have always been, and there's no way I'm going to let some single-serving lowlife shake my faith in that. Because, what? He didn't like my sweater? My lip piercing? My vintage British army jacket? There is nothing about those things, or me, that in any way affected this man's life or somehow gave him the right to thrust his judgements upon me.
That fine specimen of humanity hauled ass off that subway train because he knew that if he gave me half a chance, he'd get more than a piece of my mind. But he ran like the little boy that he is, so you all get that piece and it goes like this.
Dear dirtbag. You are nothing but a coward. You ran because you knew that if you'd stayed I would have told you that you are nothing but an overgrown bully.
You have no right to comment on my appearance. I am not here to meet your narrow, fascist beauty standards. This may be news to you, but women do not exist for your pleasure and our existence does not invite your critique.
You can go join your brothers over there who say Marilyn Monroe was fat while feeding their own beer guts. Go on, because I'm drawing a line here, and over there is where we put hateful, small people like you. You can come out of time-out when I say so, and I'm not going to say so until you write, "I'm an ugly, insignificant bag of dicks who puts others down to feel better about my own worthlessness" one thousand times. One thousand is a big number, so if I were you I'd start writing.
Look, loser, I am sorry that some tattooed, pierced, quirky, crazy-colored hair girl who wore scarves without a coat turned you down. I really am, except I'm not, because every girl and woman between now and the next coming of Jesus Christ will turn you down. Women have exceptional senses of smell, and we can identify your Eau du Jerk from a mile away.
You are nothing. You have no power over me and since I cannot say this to your face, I'm saying it to everyone so that when they encounter you or any of your ilk, they know that your petty insults mean nothing and come from a place of total and complete insecurity.
Somewhere out there is a total dirtbag who was riding the L train that left Union Square for Brooklyn at around 6:30PM on 11/9/2010. Pale white male, mid thirties, short light hair that was a bit thin on the top, tall and a touch on the scrawny side, wearing greenish pants and glasses. Was already on the train at Union Square and got off at Graham, Grand or Montrose. I suspect he makes a habit of dropping these notes in strangers' laps, so if you've encountered him, let me know either in the comments or via email. I would love to have his name and face to post here so that the world can know exactly what sort of human being he is.
And if that pile of shit or anyone else tries to make you feel like you're somehow bad or ugly or worthless because you're not what THEY think you should be, send them my way. I know you are awesome and I know I am awesome and I am also really, really pissed so I will be happy to educate anyone who doubts that through public humiliation and strategic CIA interrogation techniques.
I hope the next time this douchebag pulls this stunt, the doors close before he can escape and his intended target kicks him in the nuts.
Love,
Beth