Blissfully Unwed

I got a job!

Mon, 06 May 2013 19:50:01 -0500

And that’s about all I have time/brainpowers to say. Basically, I’m a researcher for a design firm (hah: I move away from graphic design, only to end up at a graphic design company), starting tomorrow. And I’m super-excited, because now I can actually use something I learned during those 4 years I spent studying, you know, researching and writing about shit. I also get cool perks, such as the mani/pedi my new boss sent me to get after he hired me today. Sexcellent! Observe:

I like your blog :)

Mon, 06 May 2013 19:40:12 -0500

I like it when people like my blog! I mean, unless Rick Perry told me he liked it… then, I think I’d have to get back in there and change everything about my life ever.

Things That Will Totally Make Me Maybe Date You

Wed, 24 Apr 2013 23:10:00 -0500

Not that I’m blaming myself for any of the things that happened with Graham’s dad (I didn’t steal a few cool Gs from myself before deposing my son and I from our home, for instance), but I have been thinking that, if this experience doesn’t send me finally running to the other team, I might want to do some things differently. One thing I didn’t do before I started dating B, for instance, was look for specific traits in a man. It probably wouldn’t have worked, even if I’d tried, because I was in college and therefore generally too drunk to see any traits in the first place. But, anyway: I made a list.

1. No anti-drug dudes. I’m not saying this because I’m some kind of abscess-plagued hard drug aficionado who likes to drag dates from one crackhouse to the next all night; I just never really get along with teetotalers. I mean, at least be cool with smoking a little weed. Is that so much to ask? Oh, and definitely nobody who doesn’t drink; I look better naked with a buzz.

2. Must be good at sex. And, by “good at sex,” I mean “willing to do most or all of the work because I am lazy (but honest!).” And, also, the sooner you prove it, the better. No one likes to invest three dates in a sexual kindergartener who is going to be much more awkward to get rid of than they would’ve been after just one date. But that’s also why I don’t date dudes who wear Affliction shirts.

3. No dumbasses. Like, preferably, you have a degree, but, if not, maybe write an essay describing why you think we would have something in common even though you don’t have a piece of paper proving that we have at least both read books other than To Kill a Mockingbird.

4. Thick skin and a sort-of (ok, REALLY) bent sense of humor is a must. Like, you were able to read number 4 without squealing, “Stuck-up BITCH!” And throwing down your web-surfing device and crying.

5. But you can’t be a sexist douchebag Dane Cook wannabe who thinks you’re funny and that everybody else is just too sensitive because NO.

6. Realize that I am not your manic pixie dream girl and that you will never change me. Like, never, ever. At the most, maybe, someday, I will do a better job at picking up my dirty laundry, but even that’s iffy. This automatically rules out religious types who would like to “save” me, but, if you’re religious and cool with my attitude toward your beliefs, which is best described as *eye-roll*, that could work.

7. Understand that we will probably date for about eleventy-billion years before I agree to get any more serious than “Well, yeah, MAYBE I won’t sleep with other people.” I also reserve the right to go back on this one if one day I magically forget about that stolen money I mentioned at the beginning of this blog.

8. You must think my kid is the shit, but understand that my uterus is now out-of-commission for like, probably forever. Because, yeah… no.

9. No racial slurs, ever. I can’t believe I just said that, but this is the South.

10. Don’t say things that make me cringe. I can’t possibly categorize this list or write out every item, but, basically, I’m referring to things like talking like you’re black when you’re incredibly not-black, or using words like “yum-o,” which will send me running for the hills even if you are super hot and have TOTALLY read way more books than just To Kill a Mockingbird.

Ok, 10 is a good number, plus I think I covered all the important stuff. Oh, wait: it would be cool if you had a job and were attractive and taller than me and shit. There! Now everybody knows I’m pretty much intolerable.

Truth!

Mon, 22 Apr 2013 17:01:29 -0500

Truth!

In Which I Learn a Lesson... Sort of.

Mon, 15 Apr 2013 18:03:55 -0500

Above: Graham’s chubby chubby baby hand attempts to prize the book in question from my lap. He’s not so much a literature aficionado as he is really, really grabby.

In her own way of suggesting that my life can probably only be salvaged by divine intervention, my mom likes to occasionally buy me books about things in which I am interested, penned by authors with a sneaky Christian agenda. She says there’s no agenda, but there totally is. I read them, anyway, because hinting at my need for divine intervention is way better than the less-nuanced alternative of giving me a regular intervention.

The latest installation in this series of not-so-subtle hints is Carry On, Warrior: Thoughts On Life Unarmed by Glennon Doyle Melton, former alcoholic turned housewife turned blogger turned memoirist. I guess I’m flinging the word “housewife” around pretty liberally, since she did write a book, but she’s spilled much more ink over her husband and children than anything else in the half of it I’ve read so far, so it seemed like the best word to use. Not judging.

I’m usually not a fan of religious converts using accounts of their past sins to inhale some of the fumes leftover from their glory days, but Melton does a pretty good job of underscoring her ongoing struggle and of the importance of transparency, so I have to nod in her general direction as far as that goes.

This is her own narrative, of course, and, as with everyone else’s, with or without embellishment, it’s a valid one. What I keep asking myself, though, is, “What makes this special?”

Really, this author isn’t special so much as she is lucky. Lucky, for instance, that she seized upon the perfect, shiny, golden opportunity to transition from reveling in dudes and drugs and booze and fun and make the inevitable transition to grown-up life. Most of us either don’t get such a great opportunity at all, or we wait too long and lose traction on the path of Chances to Act Like An Adult.

Not all of us originate from strong, supportive families that help us go to college to get good at writing in the first place. Nor do we get knocked up by male models who agree to marry us and stay with us and even supply us with even more children. The value of an advantageous marriage is limitless, really: the free time afforded by not working multiple jobs or participating in any of the other activities necessary to keep a family afloat on the wrong side of the wage gap is a blessing that many single parents just don’t receive.

I will say, Melton isn’t oblivious to the fact that she’s fortunate. She realizes that she is, in her book, when she recounts mourning the dissolution of her sister’s first marriage: “I’d never done a productive thing in my life except get sober and make babies. She’d done everything, forever, by the book… You cannot earn yourself an easy life, or even a fair one.” So, there’s that, at least.

Struggle is relative, I know. But, still, for a minute there, as I read, I felt angry. I was pissed that someone whose life, past and present, didn’t seem all that problem-laden at all, was confessing about those problems and getting a book deal. Not that I’m angry because I don’t have a book deal (and not that I’d have a problem with a book deal - any takers?!); it just seemed ludicrous that anyone else considers these non-problems to be problems, too. They aren’t problems, are they? But, as I said, struggle is relative. Problems are relative. And, to someone else, my problems probably sound kind of ridiculous, too. That’s humbling, but it’s also a little comforting. I guess this is probably about as close to a divine intervention as I’m gonna get.

I asked my aunt to define “abundance” today. This is...

Thu, 11 Apr 2013 19:50:57 -0500

I asked my aunt to define “abundance” today. This is what she said.

In Which We Revisit the Concept That, Just Because You Weren't Born to be a Mom, Doesn't Mean You Can't Get Knocked Up

Thu, 11 Apr 2013 19:05:44 -0500

I’ve probably told you this story before, but, you know, I’m kind of notorious for that.

So, before I had a baby, my only experience with one was babysitting for a family who, fortunately, never figured out that, every time they left the house, I put their little cry machine in its bed so it could exhaust itself by screaming until it passed out - hopefully before I was done raiding the fridge. The sound of babycries totally spoils one’s appetite, which is why I understand when people are pissed when their fellow restaurant-goers bring one to dinner like it’s just another person.

When I was pregnant, every time I confessed to my utter lack of relevant experience to qualify me for the position of Mom, everyone told me not to worry; that, the first time I held my baby, I would fall totally in love and not ever want to party, go to work or even have my old vagina back again. I’m guessing that whoever who told me this didn’t even come close to sharing my enthusiasm for having fun, making money and having a lot to offer in the no-no square department due to a great deal of personality flaws.

Don’t get me wrong: I DID fall in love with my son the first time I held him, and I like dandling him on my knee and other stuff that people with babies are into. However, by no means did making a baby turn me into a different person, which is the way I was told that these things happen.

I can’t be the only mom like this. In fact, I know I’m not: one of my friends told me just the other day that she didn’t feel bonded with her daughter until she was about 6 months old. And, when I say, “like this,” I don’t mean the kind of parent that blows cracksmoke in their child’s face; I just mean women who don’t really have that, you know, mom thing. And just because it doesn’t come naturally doesn’t mean that we suck at being moms.

Maybe it’s not the best example, but, when speaking about a helicopter mom in one of her memoirs, Chelsea Handler says, “[She] was the antithesis of my mother. There was more adult supervision at the Neverland Ranch than there was in my house growing up. When, a week before my fourth birthday, my parents told me to play my own birthday party - I knew I was pretty much on my own.” You may disagree, but I think that anyone capable of writing My Horizontal Life turned out pretty great.

The bottom line here is that, if you don’t have some kind of knee-jerk reflex that makes you want to turn on Disney Jr. or sing lullabies or whatever, it doesn’t mean that you’re a bad parent. As someone who marches almost every noise-making toy given to my child by well-meaning family members right back to WalMart to trade for store credit to buy underwear so I don’t have to do laundry OR listen to the same terrible song eleventybillion times this week, though, I guess my opinion might be a little biased.

Not Quite Divorce, or Rebirth by Force

Tue, 02 Apr 2013 14:25:20 -0500

This probably isn’t the kind of thing you’re supposed to talk about on the internet. When you post publicly about what your vagina is up to at least twice a week, though, you sort of lose your bearings when it comes to this shit.

Tomorrow will mark a month since my partner and I separated. An anniversary, I suppose, of sorts. We didn’t even celebrate the anniversary of the day we met this year, so, what the hell? Let’s reminisce now. I think I’m going to need a drink, anyway.

Anyone who passes on getting married in order to avoid the pain of divorce might as well go ahead and trot on down the aisle, because, listen, kids, I’ve been divorced before, and this separation has sucked insurmountably harder. I never understood, before, when people would say that a divorce is like a death, but, now, I do. Our family was its own entity. Like, you know, the holy trinity, without the holy part. I’m not sure when he disengaged himself from us. I couldn’t tell you the first day I got the sick feeling that there was a stranger in my bed (and not in the good way). But I doubt I’ll ever forget the exact day that he told me to take our son and leave.

This isn’t exactly one of those things you plan for, and, so, of course, it happened at the worst possible time in the history of worst possible times. The unemployment I’ve collected since losing my job is cool and all, but I wasn’t exactly putting a little back every week into my Divorce Fund. So, I’m sitting now at my mom’s, one eye on Graham and the other on job and apartment listings, with a broken-down car in the driveway. Broken car, broken family, broken heart. But, if divorce is death, then it must also be birth. Every ending is, after all, a beginning, and, as any woman who has given birth will tell you, it never comes without pain, no matter how many times you push the button to put more pain meds in your spine (which I still think is not actually connected to anything other than your OB’s desire to shut you up).

Everyone wants to know what’s next for us. Is this permanent? Have you “given up?” I don’t have any answers. As with any loss, I needed time to grieve. I took a month - a month of wondering how the hell I was supposed to eat; to shower; to get out of bed in the morning; to take another breath. But, when you have a child who depends on you, you don’t have the luxury of not doing these things. You have to figure it out, and fast. Now, it’s time to figure out the bigger things. I didn’t choose to start over, but how I do it is entirely up to me, and I’m gonna make this look GOOD (Men in Black-style; say it with me). Stay tuned in, internets. This could get scandalous.

Photo

Tue, 26 Feb 2013 01:43:20 -0600

So, Jesus, Tampax Lied; My Period is So Not Happy

Sat, 09 Feb 2013 20:19:32 -0600

Dear Lord Sweet Baby King Jesus,

I’m not the type to ask for supernatural assistance every time my neighbor’s great aunt stubs her toe, but, today, I have a request.

Just because I’m not a big supplicator doesn’t mean that I’m not up-to-speed on shit. I know, for instance, that, according to Mark 5, verses 25-34, your impressive miracle repertoire includes, shall we say, the ability to dry up the red sea. Get it? Anyway, I know that, on every other occasion on which we have spoken in the past few years (omitting all the times I was like, “PLEASE JESUS PLEASE PLEASE PLEEEASE DON’T LET THEM CALL OUT THE DRUG DOGS”), I’ve asked for pretty much the opposite of this, but, this time, I’m going to have to ask you to work a Mark 5:24-36 on me. Like, stat, because, even though Shark Week just started today, it already feels like Shark ETERNITY.

I’m not very particular about the method by which you go about alleviating my menstrual misery. Even early onset of menopause, for instance, would be totes acceptable. There’s only one exception I’m going to have to ask you to make: whatever you do, don’t conjure up a pregnancy in order to call off this month’s period. I know you pride yourself in your sense of humor, and that this is just the kind of thing you’d find hilaaarious, but, trust me, it would really be kinda tacky. Besides, you need to save all your fertility spells for Beyonce.

If you choose to do me a solid here (and I think you should, because, per the aforementioned passage in the Gospel According to Mark, you dig impure women), I so promise that I will consider going to church. Really! Just not until the cramps have fully abated. A girl can only endure so much torture in one day.

So, good luck, and don’t fuck it up, or whatever your followers tend to end a prayer with, Amen.

I was having an awesome eyelash day, yesterday. Like, stupid,...

Sat, 09 Feb 2013 19:49:34 -0600

I was having an awesome eyelash day, yesterday. Like, stupid, too-good-to-be-true good. Good eyelash days are far better than good hair days, because, if your hair looks like a small family of rats has recently taken up residence within its matted strands, you can always wear a hat or a scarf or something. They don’t make hats for eyelashes. Fortunately, yesterday, mine didn’t need one.

I'm calling this one: "Things You Can Do When You're Unemployed." In addition to afternoon drinking, obvs.

Tue, 05 Feb 2013 17:01:52 -0600

Behold: the results of donating plasma, as seen on my right arm. This is the same arm, which, as you may recall, was abused last Thursday by an incompetent phlebotomist. Much as I’d like to give this dude a pass by assuming that Octopharma’s employees suffer from low morale due to less-than-competitive wages, resulting in work performance that looks like, you know, my arm, I’m pretty sure that’s not the problem. Given the fact that a second phlebotomist came to my rescue and drew blood from my left arm with technical proficiency that would’ve made a robot feel inferior, I’m pretty sure that the maiming of my right arm was done by an individual who is also known as as That Guy Who Definitely Smokes Something Before Work, But We Can’t Figure Out What.

Don’t get me wrong, it’s an experience I’m happy to tuck under my belt, especially since the $30 I made bought me a fat bottle of wine and several new additions to my job interview wardrobe at Goodwill (I’ll wear your granddad’s clooothes), where I also found a ribbed tank so gorious, I believe that its fibers were cured in Jesus’ tears before it was sewn together. Behold!

Donating plasma is just of the many activities that I didn’t have time to participate in before losing the extra weight of my fundie Christian boss who did stupid fundie Christian shit like never missing an opportunity to bring any actual work that might be taking place to a screeching halt in order to correct any employee who dared to shorten “Christmas” to “Xmas.”

During my time of unemployment, for instance, I have not had to turn one pair of underwear inside-out because I’d run out of clean ones for lack of laundry-doing. I’ve prepared home-cooked meals for my family. I have maintained trimmed and styled hair (you would not believe how phenomenal it looks when I actually brush it). I’ve developed an exceptionally-close bond with all the pets in the house. I have even whitened my teeth with something other than Photoshop. Best of all, though: I have the selfies to prove it. Shall we?

I am not ashamed to admit that I have also taken two of the greatest photos of my butt that have ever turned my cell phone into a liability. I wouldn’t be ashamed to post them, either, but what little propriety I possess is standing in my way. I know; I’m a little surprised, too.

oldiznewagain: Colorized Bettie Page beautiful backside. ...

Thu, 31 Jan 2013 03:35:15 -0600

oldiznewagain:

Colorized Bettie Page beautiful backside. Original here.

Gorgeous! :D

I Donated Plasma (and Possibly Some of My Dignity)

Thu, 31 Jan 2013 02:16:00 -0600

As you may have heard (or not, whatever, you know now), I have been spending what are typically my working hours at home now for a few weeks, searching for new and more gainful employment. Not being bound to a desk all day by this invisible chain called a paycheck, I’ve spent my time producing more delicious but very possibly (say it with me) diabeetus-inducing home-cooked meals, and fewer blog entries. Just in case you were wondering.

I guess we’re a fortunate little lower-middle class family, because, with his job, B has been able to keep us afloat and even pay for a few weeks of daycare in the name of an uninterrupted job search for Mandy. Unfortunately, though, this tragic (shut up, it IS tragic to me) budget squeeze has required us to cut back to the necessities - and I think we all know how I feel about necessities. Unless I get to define them, you know, but, as the only person in our home who prefers wine to three square meals, AND the one without a job, I’m pretty much SOL on this occasion. So, today, I decided to give back a little by donating plasma for some extra ~~beer money~~ cash.

From the jump, I felt a little slighted by the fact that I would receive a smaller sorry-we-stole-part-of-your-blood compensation package than my fellow donors who were lucky enough to weigh over 150 pounds (THE HUMANITY!) would be given. I wasn’t too unhappy with the amount they gave to people who can’t help that they’re small dammit, so I moved along with the process.

No one has ever had trouble accessing my veins. I’m not saying those little blood subways are EASY, but they don’t typically object to being poked, either, if you get my drift winkety wink wink. Today, though, of all days, when we actually stood to make some money instead of losing it to a doctor, my veins suddenly developed some dignity and retreated far beneath my armskin to sulk and refuse to come out and play. Or, you know, maybe the phlebotomist sucked. Either way, they plunged the needle what turned out to be way too far into my right arm, took only half of what they needed before it was tapped out, and had to stick me again in my left arm unless I just wanted to leave without my blood or my money which NO.

As I sat there, wondering how an organization that pays individuals to give up their bodily fluids in a fairly unpleasant procedure has the gall to turn away individuals who have had sex for drugs or money since 1977, my phone rang. Taking the call would have violated the rules of the donation floor, and I didn’t want to risk an infraction that could get me kicked out without what appeared to be most of the blood in my body, so I let it go. I did, however, manage to discreetly (I think… my bar for this shit is so low) listen to the resulting voicemail, which was left, it turns out, by my job recruiter. She had called to report good news, although she revealed no details (but, I mean, really, there are only so many kinds of good news an employment agency can deliver to a job seeker). I’d been in a pretty docile, it’s-all-good-I-don’t-use-that-vein-for-anything kind of mood, up until that point, but, after hearing the message, I started clenching and unclenching my left fist with a vengeance, unable to think about anything other than returning the call, in hopes that I would soon be spending my afternoons earning more than the $30 this vein-abusing place was paying me.

After I finally escaped into the main lobby and returned the call, it turned out that the news was, indeed, very good: I passed the online test I took earlier this week as a perquisite for an interview with the company I’ve been dying to work for. Can I get a HOLLAAA up in here?! The final interview, in all its glory, is tomorrow, followed, hopefully, by my acquisition of 100% company-paid insurance, guaranteed bonuses and the extra $10k a year that I did not earn at my last job.

I’m not trying to sound like I’m better than all my fellow donors, but I’m pretty sure that nobody walked out of that place happier today than me.

Mother Plans On Spending Nothing On Her Son in 2013; is My Hero

Sat, 26 Jan 2013 10:18:10 -0600

See this lady right here? We have a lot in common. Her adorable child bears a great resemblance to mine (thus the adorable), she has a blog, and she has resolved to avoid spending any money on her son this year. Why the stingy parent business? I’m glad you asked.

I grew up digging through sale bins at thrift stores and yard sales for Barbies with clothes, battery-operated toys with still-charged batteries, or - and this was solid gold - a Polly Pocket toy with the Polly doll still inside. This gave me the impression that low-budget childrearing was the norm - right up until I had my own child to rear. Then, I stopped ignoring the images crowding my social media feeds of the latest and greatest accessories that my friends were buying for their offspring - offspring that couldn’t even ask for a snack yet, let alone demand expensive toyage.

I get it: consumerism is a powerful force. Sure, many of us don’t all feel all that compelled to buy our children this year’s version of Tickle Me Expensive as a matter of necessity. Be that as it may, though, most of us still want to avoid being known as the Goodwill Parent. And, in today’s “pics or it didn’t happen” world, it’s hard to give the impression that you’re buying the shit without actually buying the shit. And, if you’re not buying the shit, what ARE you buying, you selfish asshole?!

In the end, this whole thing comes down to every parent’s weakness: our desire to give our kids the best of everything. It’s a marketing strategy particularly effective on frightened and uninformed pregnant first-time moms, which is probably why it’s so played-out that it makes Call Me Maybe look fresh and exciting. But is a $50 pair of shoes for a kid who can’t even walk yet really “the best?”

I’m not sure what my takeaway would’ve been, had my childhood been ruled by consumerism. I do know, though, that I wouldn’t have learned that commercials aren’t a very good source of information if my parents had bought me everything I saw on TV. A go-kart that wasn’t rigged with a tiller engine and pool mat seats wouldn’t have taught me resourcefulness. Buying new, name-brand clothes wouldn’t have been a lesson in how to spend a little money and look a lot awesome.

Most importantly, there is my mom’s mantra, “You didn’t need new toys; you had each other! You were happy with sticks and dirt.” Without it, I wouldn’t understand the importance of family, and how much more valuable it is than anything you can get at Babies R Us.

Almost as good as Cheaters: undeniable evidence of my...

Wed, 09 Jan 2013 01:14:50 -0600

Almost as good as Cheaters: undeniable evidence of my partner’s maaaybe-too-close bond with our “first baby,” Little Bear. Our trial run may have failed in the potty training department, but we are co-sleeping PROS. Obvs!

Ok, yeah, this is about my ten millionth posting today, I know,...

Thu, 03 Jan 2013 10:36:09 -0600

Ok, yeah, this is about my ten millionth posting today, I know, but we have a lot of catching up to do, y’all. The good news is that this photo set brings us all the way up to last night, when my allergy to Texas (doctors remain unsure as to whether the reaction is triggered by the local foliage, or by bigotry, both of which are so prolific in this area that it’s impossible to rule either out) caused my lips to swell to Octomom-like proportions. Since my plastic surgery budget is unlikely to ever climb higher than its current limit of $.99, I made sure to memorialize that fucking magical moment on film. You’re welcome.

More awesome things I didn’t share with you over the...

Thu, 03 Jan 2013 09:29:17 -0600

More awesome things I didn’t share with you over the Holidays: Grizzy Graham had his first bubble bath. At first, he was a little perplexed, but, after extensive research in the form of a taste test and consultation with his dad (the one where he’s looking up like he just saw Jesus was taken when B walked into the room; go figure, the parent who didn’t even facilitate the bubble bath gets all the credit :P), he finally decided to join Team Fuck Yes Bubbles. And it was adorable.

Good morning, followers! The Holidays are mercifully over, and...

Thu, 03 Jan 2013 09:19:02 -0600

Good morning, followers! The Holidays are mercifully over, and I’m getting ready to set my 2012 In Review entry free. In the meanwhile, here: I made this. Originally, I just wanted to adapt a version of a Facebook cover I’d recently designed for my iMac wallpaper, but, in the end, this piece’s designage somehow ended up being way cooler than that of its source of inspiration. So, I thought I’d share. Because I’m awesome like that.

Murder by Proxy: How Missing the Point is Killing Americans and Fucking Up Our Kids

Wed, 26 Dec 2012 21:23:00 -0600

Normally, when Barry loses interest in a film and tries to switch to something else, I shrug and let it happen. But, tonight, I let him sulk, because Murder by Proxy: How America Went Postal just blew my mind more than any other documentary I’ve seen this year. It was released in 2010, but, obviously, today, an introspective on American killing sprees in the workplace - and beyond - remains incredibly relevant. Sadly, as the film points out, that relevance is probably gonna stick around for awhile.

“The enemy is the postal service. Well, you can’t kill the postal service…. The actual victims are pawns.” Murder by proxy is the act of inflicting that ultimate act of vengeance meant for an enemy upon someone else. The film examined the working conditions in the Postal Service, beginning in the ’80s, during which time the term “going postal” was coined, because postal workers just seemed to be unable to stop coming to work with guns and shooting each other. The higher-ups insisted that these individuals were just bad apples, but postal workers had another story to tell: these violent outbursts were the result, not simply of the mental illness of their perpetrators, but of the abusive working conditions adopted by the Postal Service in the ‘80s.

“To suffer abuse in silence in exchange for a paycheck is the unwritten rule for many American workers.” And it’s not any better today – a full 70% of Americans say that they are unhappy at their jobs. It doesn’t seem much of a stretch to think that the 2.5 Americans who die as a result of workplace violence every day are sharing their very own unsavory piece of that pie.

“When we tolerate the corporate practice of abusing workers with impunity, it belittles our society. It dehumanizes us… The mass murder phenomenon could not be confined to the workplace. It was only a matter of time before it spread to the rest of American society.”

Although this kind of alienation occurs frequently in the workplace, many Americans feel marginalized elsewhere in life, as well. A cursory glance at the profiles of various perpetrators of mass shootings reveals that this feeling of isolation and victimization that seems to be completely irreparable is responsible for many, if not most, of these killing sprees.

Here’s the thing: yeah, in America, we treat a lot of people like shit – in the name of capitalism, especially. That these people are marginalized, and the flaws in our society that cause them to be marginalized, though, is only half the problem. Yes, we know these people feel that injustices are being committed. Quite often, they are correct, and those injustices are in dire need of reparation. But what about the method which these individuals continuously utilize to take those reparations into their own hands? Is violence really a natural response to perceived mistreatment, or might that response be learned? Let’s face it: our society’s attitude toward violence is the other, unspoken half of this problem, and we ignore it to the tune of some pretty devastating fucking consequences.

I’m not here to talk to you about lax gun laws or violent video games. The question of whether or not these issues contribute to the prevalence of violence in our society has been debated more than enough, with each side loudly making its claims, missing, for all its obviousness, that these are not the cause of our problem with violence; they are symptoms of our problem with violence.

You can’t turn on the TV and flip through more than a few channels, at any given time, without seeing a good guy fighting injustice by incapacitating the bad guys. The weapons and the degrees of deadliness that are exacted differ, but the use of physical force to right wrongs is extremely prevalent, and most of us got our first taste of it in programming made for children.

Our high esteem of violence as a method of squelching enemies stretches far beyond movies and TV. Are men naturally predisposed to greater degrees of violence, for instance, or does a society that tells men that they are failures if they don’t physically confront that guy who just made a pass at their girlfriend at a bar cultivate a dangerous atmosphere?

I know what you’re going to say, “But you’re supposed to kill the BAD GUYS! Not a building full of postal workers or a schoolhouse full of children!” And you’re right. Technically, in at least most of our traditional attitudes towards violence, it’s seen as a solution in black/white, good/evil situations, in which the good guy has to defend the innocent from the bad guy. These situations abound in our media, but, let me ask you: how often does this happen in real life? How many times is the purely evil gunman taken down by the purely good gunman, with no grey areas, no what-ifs, no blowback, period? How often does the perpetrator of an act of violence feel they’ve made the right decision, only to discover later that it was wrong, or that public opinion found it to be wrong?

An individual must certainly be mentally ill to walk into a crowded room and start unloading a clip on its occupants. But even the mentally ill are not immune to the influences of society. Their motives and their targets are misdirected, but their behavior is in step with what they have been taught. Even down to ending a killing spree with suicide, as so many of these shooters do, is textbook hero stuff; how many films have YOU seen in which the protagonist, down to his last grenade, pulls the pin and clutches it, beckoning his enemies over to take as many out as possible before his own death? And let’s go back to that asshole in the bar thing: if mental illness is the only factor at work here, why are the overwhelming majority of these murderers men? Could it have something to do with the fact that our society associates violence with masculinity?

I don’t know how we, as a nation, should go about addressing this problem. I haven’t a clue. But, if you’re a parent, or a teacher, or an aunt, or an uncle – hell, if you interact with kids ever, at all - and you’re reading this, think about how you can pass on the importance of peaceful solutions. You can’t protect your child from every bad influence, and you shouldn’t feel that you must, but you can provide context. You can stress the importance of peacemaking, and teach them to value human life – even the lives of humans who treat them unkindly. You have a chance to help stop the cycle. Just as the abuse of a single employee can lead to a workplace massacre, an act of kindness can help to save lives. We have to start somewhere.

Photo Credit: Jessica Kirkham.