Second Verse, Same as the First

There aren’t very many things that make me so angry I want to yell and pound walls. Consequently, I don’t often get that angry. Probably there are more things out there that I could get angry at, really angry; not “I’m blogging about Tyra today” angry. Probably I have anger expression issues – I definitely have a dislike of conflict that causes me to avoid it at all costs.

Sarah theorized once that the reason I eat so many chips is because the crunch is a physical release of the tension I’m holding. I think she might be right.

So when I do find my blood boiling and my eyes steaming, I am surprised by my own behavior and don’t know quite what to do with myself. Usually I end up swearing a lot and yelling and then apologizing to the person I’m venting to and then drinking.

The other day, Thursday, was one of those days at work. Now, contrary to what you might read here, I don’t work with more idiots than is available to anyone in the general population. I work with a nice selection of people. Some of them are smarter than others; very few of them are actually offensive to me on a daily basis. One of them is actually someone I would want to hang out with outside of work and order t-shirts from Threadless with. Not bad, really, for a random accumulation of people in an artificial environment.

I also don’t actually hate the world. I exaggerate for effect. I know. I KNOW you’re shocked.

So Thursday’s suckitude and my subsequent tantrum was not the fault of my co-workers. It was not the fault of Translink, for once. It was not even the fault of the universe. What made me lose my shit so bad I said really nasty words to (not AT) a very non-sweary-type co-worker (who is, let me reiterate, not an idiot) was my perception of a lack of respect.

When I analyze situations that bother me, I always scratch the surface and there is respect, sitting there, being my Thing. Lack of respect. It makes me insane. It’s my Big Red Button. If you are disrespectful, seriously disrespectful, I don’t mean commenting that the woman walking down the street 2 blocks away has ugly shoes, I will start sweating and want to punch you.

I won’t punch you because I’m not like that. I will punch the wall and eat chips. But whatever.

And the lack of respect in my workplace (about which I will not be specific) is entrenched. It’s permanent. What is worse, though only nominally so, is that the system disguises its disrespect as respect but it’s actually hierarchy, which is, to my mind, a complete absence of respect. That is what makes it unworkable, for me, and most of the time it isn’t an issue but when it is an issue, it is so galling, so very IN MY FACE that I suddenly question my very existence, my service to the organization, my taking of their hush money and hush benefits.

Yes, I get very over-dramatic, too.

It’s OK when I’m just going in, doing a boring job, going home. I mean, it’s OK. It’s not scintillating. But I work with a nice little group of peers and we are very kind and respectful to one another. Even my boss, who is a biggish fish, is one of the most respectful people I know. But once we involve his boss and her boss and her boss above them. Suddenly I am basically slaving for people who believe that their power absolves them of treating the people around them like other human beings. How can I be a part of that? I do not believe that anyone, regardless of power, salary or influence, is above another human being. And my organization, through its handbooks and mandatory training and employee charters, would have me believe that it supports the same view, that no one in our organization is so above anyone else that he is exempt from the requirement to respect those below him as well as he respects (or pretends to) those above him.

So I photocopy the handbooks and I attend the training and I sit quietly through meetings where the charter is read aloud and all are to agree with it and I know that come another day like Thursday, the king speaks and his minions respond and no amount of money and benefits in the world is worth feeling like the minion of some guy who is delusional with self-importance.

Feeling like that makes me want to get off the bus on my way home and sit with the down and out folks in Pigeon Park and listen to them talk about their life stories. It makes me want to write letters to the editor. It makes me want to come home and model respectful behavior for my kid so that he has a better chance of not being that disrespectful when – and as – he grows up.

I read a letter to the editor, I think it was at Salon, in response to a story about female genital mutilation and the story was just a report, not a call to action or anything. The letter writer said, “Do you feel like an activist now that you’ve blogged about it?” and whoever said sarcasm doesn’t transmit well in the Internet didn’t read this sentence. I would not call myself an activist but I play one in my own head and until I figure out what to do with myself in the real world, that will have to be enough.