"The Golden Rule"

Had to open with something.

Mocked by a family member regarding my job. Which is rich (considering the guy was an "honest businessman" who routinely ripped off his senior citizen clients once their memory started to fail and they wouldn't notice extra and double charges, per what I was told by his brother, so I guess I could go do "honest work" like him if I was a shitheel) but also familiar, as I used to overhear my folks say I made up my business and actually sold drugs (not true).

(Between this guy and my grandpa being left to die on a shit-stained mattress by his dual guardian ad litem/power of attorney: geez, the last generation of my family really had a thing for elder abuse for cash. I guess there's a reason my folks spent most of my teen years playing musical chairs about who was going to get the inheritance).*

I have a job. ("Family" sucks ass, I'll stick to my AA groups and close friends.)

I sell books. I have for about a decade. Some of the fun part is watching your income fluctuate wildly in a way that doesn't really fit natural business patterns. Not quite overnight. But random drops of over 10% in business overnight (I don't sell direct, I sell through a certain company named after a river). So now you need two jobs. But you run your mouth, so that tends to cause problems. 

Another bit of the fun part? Being able to look up people with millions more than me who pay a lower percentage of income in taxes. Link I have not read, but google Buffett's line about how wrong it is he pays less in taxes in his secretary—while systemically enjoying the profits. Ya know Berkshire Hathaway owns not only abusive housing but Dairy Queen, where we used to have a sign in the lobby explaining when Berkshire bought the company and I'd laugh when I mentioned it and got, "What are you talking about?"

Funniest part? My income dropped three different times within months of me moving to a lower cost of living area to compensate, it was like a reverse COLA—used to make a lot more, ain't providing the numbers because I am not proud of how little I make. (And if pops'd paid those back wages, there wouldn't even be a mortgage—but it'd have made me spoiled to, uh, get my paychecks and have money before 30. Even though I put in the hours).

I used to work a second job at Fred Meyer's.**

Before that, I worked at USPS. Before that, Pizza Hut. Before that, Amazon. Before that, Dairy Queen. Before that...

Anyway, some of them were brief, but I've been working since I got pulled out of Revenge of the Sith in fifth grade. It was a friend's birthday party, but I needed to "learn responsibility."

This insult is bullshit.

It's just mocking and dehumanizing, in my eyes.

The remark that triggered this rebuff—let's say it involved reaching out for help, that not happening, and ending up reflecting on, "Well, that's pretty cold." My thoughts pinball around a bit.

I could turn on the right wing talk shows and hear worse than what I say every day. Only instead of cursing and pointing out the problems, they just, you know, promote putting circular saws on a floating border and cackle. Those aren't necessary. You already can't climb over. So why add the saws? (Sorry, there I go again being "crazy," thinking about wanton violence and thinking "That's pretty wrong.")

Would you rather be boiled or nurtured?

I know my choice.

But every time I report—my fault. Or no one will listen. Not the police. Not the school district. Not the PTA. Not the principal. Not the teachers. Not CPS. Not the court. No one. It's all someone else's department or gets lost in the trash can. Sure, Mandated Reporters are supposed to be held to a higher standard, but eh, why bother?

So the abuse goes on: my half-brother hasn't changed, he's been rewarded and is regularly around a kid who matches his victim profile. My mom hasn't changed, she's been rewarded (and bullies minorities at her job—if she hears students "speaking Mexican," she will separate them; she has gotten reprimanded at work for calling a Sikh "the Turbanator" called it "PC culture;" once separated a pair of Mexican kids for "planning to shoot up the school," but based on the description, they were talking about playing Call of Duty; and on a visit to my half-brother was outraged that an "uppity" Black woman didn't let her cut in line). And I'm in trouble for some mean words and trying to report it.

And I'm back on the porch. "If you ever..."

And mom gets away. Again.

I find out this awful secret—she was right.

You report it to everyone you can.

But that doesn't matter. Cops won't really do their job.

These days, I wonder: would it even have made a difference if I had gone to a teacher or adult back then—the day after it first happened, even the day after they were first burned? Or would I just have been blown off, ignored, mocked?  

("James can turn on the tears," is what my half-siblings would say; my half-sister would use her long hair to tickle my sides and my armpits to make me laugh if I got too loud. "He's faking it." "Tickle Torture" is what it was called; like many victims, my abuse was introduced to me as a "game." It was only after I stopped wanting to play that "game" that it became clearer it was not a "game" at all—but even then, back porch, "If you ever tell anyone..." and I was the one misbehaving by letting it happen. As if a scrawny elementary school kid was supposed to stand a chance against two overweight 8-9 year older half-siblings, one of whom had been a wrestler and football player).***

She gets away and you get in trouble.

And you go right back to them pics burning

You'll be in more trouble for reporting than she is for committing the crime.

You get a restraining order against you—giving legal sanction to the woman.

But you report again. To a principal.

He mocks you.

Back porch. Again.

And she knows how to abuse the lgal system. From the limited bit I can gather from the divorce records at my disposal, her response to not being granted custody was to kidnap her children during visitation, go to Nevada for the shorter residency rate for a divorce, and win that way.

Someone should do some better background checks. 

I'd like to read the rest of the documents, but I only have a tiny amount.

Note: over 30 years! Just like her principal-protector pal.

And she got rewarded! Somehow went from kidnaping to running a daycare to working for a school distract where she's protected and insulated.

I wanted to be a teacher. I wanted to stop other students from enduring what I did.

Never happened, I didn't have the money and I double-majored in the wrong fields: English list and history. You're supposed to major in education, but I didn't want to be like my bad teachers, I wanted to be able to understand instead of relying on "cheat sheets."

30-year educator mocks ya, that was the last person I reported to. (I have the article that refers to him as such, but in the interest of not landing my ass on the boiler; I also know my mom knows of how he used to be a real prick to me, so she knows the methods he uses—having her tell me how "effective" he is several months ago really rubbed me the wrong way. Let me tell ya.

Once, in art class, a guy and I were flirting with the same girl and he decided to snort Crystal Light to impress her. I told him this would hurt, don't do it, but when he told me to fuck off and did it anyway, yeah, I laughed. He decked me.

When I got in trouble, I had mom's now-princi-pal tell me it was my fault and I have "this remarkable ability to make a black-and-white situation seem gray." More recently, as the foggy recesses of my bender tell me, I got feigned ignorance of who I was and then a snide, "That's the James I remember."

For my part, I remember this principal as the embodiment of that Floyd line: "When we grew up and went to school, there were certain teachers who would hurt the children in any way they could...")****

And he can mock me for reportng abuse. Is that any different from enabling it—from being responsible?

I would report, I'd have 911 on that phone immediately. And not to protect the abuser.

I remember Don's class.

About how educators are taught to see the signs of abuse. 

And I think: he was taught this, so was she. But it's my fault.

But no.

It started when I was eight.

And, as mom explained to me as she pointed out the signs of abuse she'd spotted on a kid who wet himself, "Kids only know their family. They're scared pf losing them, so it's hard for them to report." Few years after my own, I listened attentively and didn't consider my own situation at all, just how upset she was he kept wetting the bed during naptime. If I was smarter then, maybe I'd have realized she might as well have been boasting what she'd done to me. 

So, yeah, as much as I want her to be stopped—there's also a part of me that just wants to talk to my mom, sometimes. Which, of course, I can't. And if I could, she'd ignore me. And if we did, it wouldn't go well, especially after I called her a cunt before It's a real fuckin' toxic brew. 

I do distinctly remember the last we got close to discussing the abuse. She asked what I'd told a ward therapist (see, they got me locked up, then I talked to him openly when he pressed and suddenly they didn't want me locked up anymore—it's a whole story of its own). I said a bit about some of what.I remembered and she said, "I never knew [sister] was involved," and I stopped in shock and said, "But you walked in. I remember."

She turned and walked away. Both when she walked in, and when I stopped in shock she was so callous. 

(But hey—what can I expect? Before this, she complained about the litter on the path she walked by the wharf. So I picked it up one time, mentioned it cause I thought she might like that, and instead she asked, "Why?")

31-year-old me might be a dirtbag and can accept that while trying to improve.

Child me did not. I want to report right now. Both my family and Principal "Eat a bag of dicks out of my ass," but I get in trouble for that.

(This district all sorts of excellent hiring choices, from a teacher I've heard way too many creepy stories about over the years to my old school resource officer—he got demoted after too many handjobs at a happy ending massage parlor—using department money. I like to think he got called into the office and, "So, Ron, how many handjobs do you need to confirm it's a happy ending massage parlor?"—and somehow he kept his job! I can't imagine any of my cashiering jobs where I'd just be able to hit the till and be like, "See you later, boys, hitting the Hand Job Shop, tell the boss I'll be back in a bit," and not being fired.

I have the handjob article from a tabloid site, it has the legal documents attached. Once, the cop pissed off a classmate who got a vendetta, printed out a bunch of copies, and started distributing them out at school. That got shut down fast, but was a hilarious response to the cop being a complete dick).*****

Back porch. Second grade. It's my fault, shut up, or else.

Those police come and take you away.

She was right. That seems wrong. 

Let's return to Mr. Princi-Pal of mum's; I have this remarkable ability to make gray. But I'm not making gray here: child abuse is wrong. That's pretty fucking black and white. What's gray is muddying the waters, refusing to turn it in, pretending not to remember me, mocking me after revealing you definitely remember me, and still not turning it in. Actually, that's not gray at all: that's just straight up black and a shitty thing to do that, in my opinion, should get you fired and permanently banned from working anywhere near the field.

But I'm doing the AA thing (again):  can't change others, only myself. I've also reported. So I can forgive myself. I can't accept that this is happening, but I can accept it's out of my hands and I can't do anything about. If it pisses me off, time to find a meeting.

And, if I recall the judge correctly: I might not be able to report, but the First Amendment protects my right to write about my own experiences. Or, Kumar Patel, "This is America, dude, as long as I have my freedom of speech, no one's gonna shut me up.

You treat people like Daniel did,

So, I asked him once, “Why do you say that?” He replied, “It’s easier. It sort of protects them. They don’t need to know what I’m scared of, what’s hard. I’d rather just, you know, protect people. I don’t have a lot of control here, but I have control over that. If I can help other people in this situation, then why wouldn’t I?” So, I think his “living the dream” answer was really about how Daniel forever thought about others, put their needs in front of his own, and in so doing, made the rest of us feel safe.

—

*My choice not to compete while my half-siblings squabbled and angled for it, unfortunately, did not lead to me being left out. It meant I was made power of attorney and "everyone will hate you for it," when I tried to convince them to just hire a lawyer. When I said, "Well, if you do that, I'll just split it evenly between us and leave it at that," I was told they would insert a clause to disown me if I did that. Other times, my dad would tell me, "I'm going to make sure I spend every penny before I die," and laugh about how he'd get a kick out of dying enjoying he'd pulled the rug. Because... that's the kind of guy he is, I guess: works you for slave labor for his business and then makes sure to get one last laugh from beyond the grave. I don't know, but hearing about the inheritance and the will in the work truck or when mom dragged me around for errands or wanted me to walk with her or... it gets really fucking grating. Anyway, then the family pedo made a hundred-bagger and so now he's first in line, especially now that I'm an alcoholic who went and aired dirty laundry. Weight off my shoulders.

**Quite possibly the least competent management team I've ever encountered and I used to have a manager who did heroin in the bathroom at a different job—scrape 'em all together and they might be able to tell the difference an asshole and a hole in the ground. This is how a guy without permission ends up having a manager sign in, hand over the scan gun, and is repeatedly assigned to fix the incorrect inventory between store and gas station (Mimik)—despite no training.

But no one wants a guide on how to do it, that's too much time, we need you facing items instead for the next few hours, so then the people assigned to do Mimik on your days off fuck it all up again (Answer? Instead of all closings, one midshift a week to duct tape Mimik back up—worst solution, have me write up a guide).

It's how you routinely end up one of two people in grocery, but front-end needs a backup, but now who is supposed to restock the shelves when you're supposed to do that, backup cashier for the front end, and run stuff from grocery to front end to ensure a smooth checkout process? Your manager needs to make the schedule or go on break, after all.

You can't. You can try to call the lead, sure, but it'll take a few minutes to pinball around the store as different departments ignore the call, upper management had to get home early, and the phone that finally rings is—the work phone(s) on my hip (depending on breaks, I'd have both). And, damnit, James, why haven't you already cleaned out the coffee grinders with the broken produce vacuum and helped unload the frozen truck yet? We're going to need you in home, soon, cause you're one of the few people in the store with a key to the propane forklift, that manager went home early too even though he's closing.

Another favorite: my "big trouble" audio when I recorded a conversation where I got in trouble to prove the other guy was lying (you're not allowed to do that, despite store signs saying you're being recorded)—which also includes a plumber(?) coming in and saying there's something wrong with tainted water coming into the store and being used in, I believe, the frozen aisle, but "It should be fine," according to management. Or that manager later being transferred and promoted, allegedly for knocking up an employee (he had allegedly been transferred to my store in the first place cause he'd landed the company in legal hot water, but some places you only fail upwards).

The time the store manager kept pinballing me between dry and dairy cause we were understaffed—when I asked for help instead of being called back to the other before I could get any work done, he waddled in several minutes later and... asked where half-and-half went as he stood in front of the slot. He really just got in the way.

Or, for my pièce de résistance: management left the annual shareholder report boasting about record profits in the break room. Whole stack of 'em. Right around the time they told us we were having a lower-than-usual COLA and no raises despite union negotiations. So I went ahead and annotated, including several of the massive bonuses that would have more than covered raises for several stores and left it on the break room table pointing out how management was fucking us and lying.

Maybe I'm a bad employee. Maybe they're bad employers. Both can be true.

***These tie into at least two vivid memories of fighting back: once, shortly after my half-brother had gotten glasses, I remember him on top of me gropin' around and me mocking his glasses. I know who I blamed, but to this day I don't know where I actually learned the f-bomb, but I said, "If you can see, then why do you wear the fucking glasses?" He was furious. (Another time, he called me a "bastard" and I got in trouble when I asked what it meant).

Another time, right around his graduation (mom was setting up for it, I believe), he grabbed me and started telling me what he was going to do—we were in the basement that time, where dad had one of those old all-body weight machines. It had tight black ropes that'd be used to tie me up down there. I told my half-brother before he did it, I'd just had a friend show me how to hawk a loogie and I'd make sure I landed a nasty one on his face first. He ran out yelling for mom and telling her I was being mean. I got in trouble, but I did not get tied up and molested, so win for me on that one.

Another time, he had a friend over. This friend actually gave my half-brother the N64 and games he left behind and I believe he took my half-sister to a dance once. Anyway, I remember my brother kinda hinting at what was gonna happen, they'd just tie me to the weight machine and—the guy showed no interest, I think he might've turned and left. And since he disapproved, I got a reprieve that night, too.

****Another time, I returned a stolen iPod after pretending to "buy" it from the guy who had stolen it. The would-be deal was set up by that school and I ended up having to take it and run when violence was threatened ("Why is my friend's name on this if it's yours?"). As the thief waited outside with a knife, I asked my then-former-VP (I was a freshman at the time) if I could stay in the school. Not a chance. He wanted me right back out there in the danger. Seemed to enjoy telling me no. Even though I had, I thought, just done him a solid.

Note: both the thief and I were this guy's students before this. He must have handled us both for discipline. He knew that while I had my pranks, I was non-violent. He knew the other guy was violent. Dumped me out there anyway.

Just wonderful work. If I was a parent this is totally the guy I'd want to supervise my children the majority of the day. 

*****Now, far be it from a pissant like me to question the fine men and women of law enforcement, but one must wonder whether the offer of a possible future three-way situation involving him and masseuses was the end goal here.

My own favorite memory with the guy involves shooting a video project for APUSH, him being one of the officers called in response to us acting goofy in the park with toy guns, and him claiming he almost had to draw his gun on me for saying, "We're all seventeen," in response to "how old are you?" ("I didn't ask how old you all are. I asked how old you are." Fuck me for trying to be helpful) as I sat on the ground, legs splayed in front of me and leaning back on my arms, the very picture of terrifying danger. That was my first time cuffed, actually.

Close second is when he tried to get me expelled for stopping theft of a classmate's track shoes. Three punches to the face, a folding chair to the back of the head, stitches for my split lip, and I didn't hit back but he wanted me carted off to the bad boy school along with the guy who beat the shit out of me. That's a great call, Officer Dick.