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theramblingonesie · 6 years

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Sweet Tooth Sal: Criminal Intent

It started off as just any other Tuesday at the theater. My staff was working hard selling tickets and restocking the merch, the event organizers were running around town dropping off paperwork and making sure our special guests stayed special, and the volunteers were taking the time and care to explain to me that they knew how to do my job. I was busy running my tiny world in stilettos, saving customers’ lives one light switch and one lost pair of glasses at a time. Our shows were running on time, the theater was clean, and audience members were engaged in lively, thought-provoking discussions.

And then, it happened. For what some might argue was only a trivial $3.79, my world went black.

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Being the venue manager at a film festival is pretty cool. On one hand, it’s very long hours and you basically miss everything. On the other, you have the opportunity to meet some wonderful artists, and feel proud when your work helps to create a safe container to transport audiences into other worlds—worlds of deeper feeling and meaning, worlds of pleasure and escapism, worlds of introspection, connectiveness, and healing. I know that being middle management is kind of the butt of many elitist jokes, but in this particular position, I really enjoy it. I have enough autonomy and control that I’m able to have fun with my staff and our environment, encouraging everyone to work hard but also explore their creativity and prioritize their individual needs. At the same time, I have the joy of getting out of customer complaint jail by saying “yeah, that’s a total bummer, but I don’t make the rules. Feel free to chat with my boss, but in the meantime let’s work to make you comfortable.” Or even, “yeah, I ALSO wish we sold beer and wine here. I know, we’re the worst. For what it’s worth, I’m also suffering by being sober. Enjoy the show!”

*Goes into the back room and pours a glass of Prosecco that my amazing boss brought me*

Even with minor frustrations and moments of stress, the joy and love of the event wash over it all and return me to a space of inner peace and purpose.

Except for one time. That one fateful Tuesday. Let’s return to our story.

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As I return to the lobby from testing the microphones, the sea of a buzzing audience parts to show me a gentleman waiting, unattended, at the merch table. I come around the corner to discover that it’s not a customer, but a roaming staff member who has, to this point, caused me a lot of frustration. Daily, this person has squeezed me out of my office space, and demanded extra tasks and favors that are not only a part of my job description, even though he is not someone who has any authority over me. I frequently wonder, every time he comes by, why on earth he’s even in the building. There is another man who carries the same job title, who is ever-lovely and a joy to be around. But this man, this particular pain in my ass, is just oblivious, to say the least.

We’ll call him Sweet Tooth Sal.

I come around to the back of the merch table and flatly ask, “Hey Sal. What do you need?”

“Hey Sam! Let me buy one of those chocolate bars!”

“We don’t sell chocolate bars here, Sal. Per usual, we only ever have water.”

“Oh, well shoot. I just ate the chocolate that was in the back room, so I figured I’d just give you a couple bucks to grab another one.”

See: Flames.

Sentence example: Flames on the side of my face.

For those of you who don’t know me, let me explain my relationship with chocolate.

Chocolate is sacred.

Chocolate is necessary.

Chocolate is life.

Reece’s is not chocolate.

Hershey’s is not chocolate.

Chocolate costs a minimum of $3.00 per bar.

Chocolate tells me I’m beautiful and holds me when I cry.

Chocolate tells me I’m a boss when I’m stressed at work.

Chocolate is the first to celebrate my successes with me.

Chocolate rescues me when my blood sugar drops from forgetting to eat.

Chocolate is a gift to my friends.

Chocolate is for sharing with people I love.

CHOCOLATE NEEDS TO BE ASKED FIRST.

I had purchased three very special chocolate bars to keep in the breakroom for the duration of the festival for all of the above reasons. Said chocolate is only sold at one specific store in the area, so they’re not easily replaced. And of all people, I was not interested in sharing with Sal.

My oscillation between rage and shock happened too quickly for my brain to fully connect with my mouth.

“No, Sal. That was my personal chocolate. It was very special chocolate that you can’t buy here. You can only buy it at (insert health food store name). It’s not cheap.”

“Oh, well, you left it out in the breakroom, so I figured it was for everyone.”

“It’s not for everyone. It’s mine. I had it tucked off to the side.”

“Yeah I was gonna replace it, but since you don’t sell it here, whoops! Sorry!”

What could I do? I was stunned! I know, most of you are reading this like, “I WOULDA PUNCHED HIM IN THA FACE!!!!!!!!!!! I WOULDA SCREAMED AT HIM! I WOULDA MADE HIM DROP TO HIS KNEES AND TURN OVER HIS WALLET!!!!!!!!!! I WOULDA CALLED THE COPS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! I WOULDA CUT HIS TONGUE OUT AND FRAMED IT ON THE WALL AS A WARNING TO ALL THOSE WHO DARE EVER CROSS ME AGAIN, AND THEN DOX HIM ON FACEBOOK!!!!!!!!!!!!”

I’m sure you would have.

I, on the other hand, hate confrontation, and offered a mousy, ‘splainy finger-wag as my whole body shook:

“Um…well, Sal…uh, that breakroom is, um, for like, festival theater staff, and it also belongs to the theater’s regular staff year-round, so y’know, we need to be mindful of sharing space, and it’s really…uh it’s nice…you…we all need to ask before we take other people’s food cuz maybe someone brought something that was very special to them or mmm maybe they can’t afford to replace it, but like, it’s just good to ask first cuz yeah…”

I think I made it as far as “uh, that breakroom is, um” before he turned around and walked away. The rest of my mumbling was done at his back, and probably continued after he had turned the corner and closed the theater door behind him.

YEAH, GO GET HIM, TIGER. YOU REALLY PUT HIM IN HIS PLACE.

So I did the only thing one in my position could reasonable do.

I texted all of my friends about it.

I felt better after speaking with them, as they totally confirmed the rudeness of the situation. I settled comfortably back into my chair and began slowly burning each letter of Sweet Tooth Sal’s name into my dead-to-me list.

The next day, as I was running around doing my usual duties, Sweet Tooth Sal pulled me aside and said, “hey. I’m sorry about yesterday. I got you this”, and he handed me a new chocolate bar. I inspected the bar. It was dark chocolate with espresso. It looked nice. The ingredient list checked out. Again, I was in shock, but I took a deep breath, looked up and said, “thank you, Sal. That’s very kind.”

A new anger bubbled up inside of me. It was strange. I knew I should have felt relieved, that justice was served, and that it was time to shift into a space of forgiveness. But for whatever reason, I was almost angrier. I was angry that I couldn’t be angry at STS anymore, and then angry at myself for not being a more enlightened human who could just accept and move on.

I paced. I paced for what seemed like eternity. I texted my friends again, venting how angry I was about not being allowed to be angry anymore, because he technically did the right thing. I was bitter. I was bitter that he finally gave me a solid reason to write him off, an obvious offense, and then took it back, putting me back into a place of dealing with the guilt over just generally disliking him.

I sat at my desk stewing and eating the chocolate. I wondered what was happening inside of me that made me so attached to my anger, and then re-anger upon un-angering. As I contemplated, STS came back out of the theater and slimed his way behind the merch table and right up next to me.

“Hey Sam. So, heh, a guy buys a girl a chocolate bar to say he’s sorry, and then comes out of a movie to ask if she’ll split it with him. Whaddaya say?”

“Yes.” I replied. “Absolutely; help yourself.”

“Thanks! Yeah I just kinda grabbed this from the other theater. Is it any good?”

“Oh, it’s delicious. Yes.”

My righteous anger returned. I was elated.

STS returned to the movie, and I completed his name on the dead-to-me list. Glowing.

And then I released it.

****************************************************************************

When I tell this story to other folks, I get a mixed reaction. Mainly, due to the purposely absurd delivery, most just get a laugh out of it. Some see my behavior as cowardly, others understand the depth and layers of my reaction, many a combination of both.

Anger, in the kingdom of emotions, is one of my closest friends and dearest allies. Due to my specific cocktail of mental illness and trauma, I have horrible boundaries.

I am terrified of saying no. Even when I say no, I feel like a bad person and my abandonment fears kick in.

I don’t want to be the loser, the prude, the psycho, the dummy, the weakling, etc.

I don’t want to hurt people’s feelings or be a disappointment.

I don’t want to be the cause of pain, and I don’t want people to dislike me.

I don’t want people to lash out at me, shame me, or attack my core in a defensive, hostile response to me saying no.

I don’t want to be left out in the future because of the one time I had to say no.

Does this sound like most women you know?

Anger, in its healthy expression, is simply “no”. It’s not throwing chairs. It’s not ripping out someone’s heart. Sure, those actions may follow the initial inner anger signal, but that’s not the essence of anger itself. I will repeat this over and over again—

Anger is the signal inside of you that says a violation has occurred and you need to set a boundary.

That could be anywhere from your favorite mug being left out dirty-- “Ugh, boo, no. Hey friend, do you mind just washing my mug after using it? Thank you!”

To finding out your partner has cheated on you-- “FUCK YOU NOOOO. We’re going to therapy.”

To hearing horrors in the news-- “NO, I will not stand for this. I’m registering to vote and donating to those who can help.”

The word “violation” feels big and extreme, yah? It doesn’t have to be that way. Whether it’s a little grr or a big grr, it’s important to know when our bodies are saying, “hm, this doesn’t feel good”, the same way we learn to understand our food cravings. When we crave a certain food, that doesn’t mean we’re starving and have a nutritional deficiency so low that we need to go to the hospital. It just means, hey, this thing wants our attention so this beautiful machine can stay powered up and healthy. We don’t need to wait until we black out on the floor before changing our diets, just as we don’t need to wait for a heart-breaking tragedy for us to admit we feel hurt, unsafe, or disrespected.

I try to remind myself of this on the regular, because I still struggle with it. I hold onto my anger for dear life, because it’s the only emotion that helps me to feel safe. As a person with very loose and questionable boundaries, I am very easily manipulated and taken advantage of. I have a talent for attracting people with hidden agendas, control issues, and narcissistic personality traits, as well as being the person that will bring out dirty behavior in people who are otherwise fine around others. I used to view this from the lens of a person with a strong victim complex. These days, as I no longer wish to have that be my identity, I recognize how deeply people’s energetic signatures affect us and influence certain behavior, and my role in how what I feel/present will elicit certain behaviors in others. A frequent conversation I have with friends—

Friend: “Huh, that’s so weird. That person’s never done that to me.”

Me: “Of course they didn’t. Because you have self-esteem/social status.”

For people like me, as we’re navigating the path of being adults and figuring out how to heal ourselves, anger may be our saving grace. As the storyteller in me presents the bit about Sweet Tooth Sal through humor and drama, the human in me knows exactly what was going on in my head at the time. This man had been behaving in an entitled, arrogant, rude manner for days. Because I didn’t want to be seen as an oversensitive asshole, nor did I want to create a tense environment (which usually happens whenever I stand up for myself or my friends; also, people get really flipped out when tiny femme-presenting women are assertive) I just kept “letting it go”. When he pulled this shit with my chocolate, it wasn’t about the chocolate at all. If it were anyone else there, I probably would have laughed and said, “you owe me a drink, you jerk!” Or, “oh please, I’m happy to share. Which one did you try? Isn’t it so good?”

But this man represented everything I hate about fragile masculinity and entitlement. He was white, middle-aged, a social climber, a misogynist, and pushed my staff and I around as if we revolved around him. As soon as he gave me a direct, personal reason to dislike him, I took it. It felt good, because that part of me that was angry every time he was in the building was saying, “thank you for setting this boundary. Now we don’t need to engage with him.” When he wanted my forgiveness, the part of my mental illness that leaves me easily taken advantage of became activated and scared. My anger jumped up and said, “but we felt safe when you were angry and had to tell him no. If you drop this, he will hurt us again. He’s manipulating you into not holding him accountable for him behavior; please don’t let this slide.”

But then my social conditioning kicked in and shamed me by saying, “y’know, people think you’re a terror and weak-minded for your anger. You’re a joke. Healthy people let things go. Healthy people don’t cry about everything. If you don’t forgive him, it just means you’re a hateful person who likes discord. No one is going to believe your side, and he’s gonna tell the organizers that you’re a bitch and you’ll never get hired back.”

Conflicted, I just sat there and prayed, as I often do in situations where I feel stuck like this. I kept saying, “I need to be angry, but I’m so scared to say so because he’ll just attack me and call me crazy. Everyone else will say he’s nice and I’m just creating problems. Please, please universe. I don’t trust that this person will miraculously wake up and stop being a pain in the ass. Please let him show his true colors again so I don’t have to go digging for them to prove a point. JUST GIVE ME A REASON.”

Moments later he did. So when I laugh about being pleased about regaining permission to be angry, it’s not about being happy that this guy is a jerk. In an ideal situation, it would have been great if he was never a jerk at all. It was the relief that he did the dirty work to prove my point, and I didn’t need to go through the painful emotional labor to call him out for it. I was already exhausted from chasing after him all week for going into places that were off limits, throwing his equipment all over my paperwork and computer, tossing about my merch organization, and interrupting me in the middle of my job so I could serve him with something that was 100% his responsibility, only to have him unapologetically puff off and have mini-mantrums every time in response.

“But, but you told him it was fine! That’s a lie, and passive aggressive!”

Yep. You’re right. But with some people, you just have to smile while you hand them the shovel, tell them what a beautiful hole they’ve dug, and then walk away, because you’ll probably never get through to them with reason or vulnerability. And I found that, since I settled in my mind on him being total turd and no longer wrestling with whether or not I was supposed to like him, it was far easier for me to set boundaries for the rest of the week, because I had 0 investment in us getting along. Whatever special treatment he wanted and wherever he wanted to go that was not accessible, I just smiled and said no. I didn’t try to excessively explain myself or blame myself for his inconveniences. I just said no, gave him an option or two about how he could find an alternative, and then let him figure it out.

I think this story is important, because a lot of people assume that since I’m directing a project all about women’s anger, then I must be some kind of expert. Some people have called me the Queen of Anger.

I’m not.

More like, Queen of Self-Doubt Who Constantly Questions Her Reality And Just Wishes People Respected Her But Is Too Afraid To Ask For It And Why Can’t They Do It Without Being Told.

I really, really struggle with anger, which is why it’s so fascinating to me. I’m often either trying to hide it, or exploding when it builds up too much. By creating The Scarlet Tongue Project, part of my intention is to contribute to developing a world where women who struggle like me, and anyone else who struggles like them, don’t need to be afraid of this emotion anymore, and we can use it authentically to create the brightest, healthiest, loving lives we can.

If something hurts you today, I hope you are able to give yourself permission to be angry and say no. If you don’t feel ready for that yet, but want to learn more about women who do, you can help out by supporting the Patreon for my film project at https://www.patreon.com/thescarlettongueproject

Thank you for reading!

https://www.patreon.com/thescarlettongueproject

#rage #anger #boundaries #red #women #intersectional feminism #chocolate #fire

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