Jelly for Breakfast
I’ve been listening to some r/EntitledParents. It’s similar in theme to r/IDontWorkHereLady in that it’s about Karens being dicks and claiming it’s allowed or even required because of their societal role. Except this one is about entitlement based on motherhood instead of money. As you can imagine this involves some trauma porn, but it’s been helping me have oppression feels. These stories are full of people who see abuse happening and choose to do nothing. It’s sad, to hear about young people I know are being hurt. It’s infuriating to see how sometimes they are held responsible for their supposed caregivers. But it’s useful to see the way that people feel like they aren’t allowed to help even when they technically could. To see the way the world requires that we tolerate – enable – mistreatment not just in the long term and when hidden, but when it’s open and immediate. It’s hard to hear the stories but it’s good for me to imagine that the abuse is something that is widely accepted against young people. It’s easy for me to imagine that people ignored my pain individually because of something about me.
Also, don’t. Stop participating when you see it happen. I know you can’t fix parental rights, can’t save young people from their parents. Some of you see this even with young people you are assigned to control – the world requires that you let them be hurt if their parents so choose. But you could say something when you see it happen. You could offer reassurance to someone you see being hurt, to let them know it’s not their fault. To acknowledge their pain even if you can’t relieve it. You don’t have to – shouldn’t in most cases – confront their parents. But you can let the victims know that you see what’s happening and that it’s not okay and that they are normal for not liking it.
This applies to all forms of abuse and harassment, not just young people. Offering support to victims is the most impactful way you can counter many forms of social pain. But young people are a particularly vulnerable group who are often required by law to live with their abusers for decades. So step up when something is wrong, assert whatever privilege you can muster to steel yourself against the backlash, and say something. Just once. Just for one minute. It can make a big difference.
There as a waitress at a diner in Proctor, MN who helped me one summer when I was sent there. My paternal grandfather went there most days for coffee and often food. I came with him, before my assigned work for the day, but I didn’t get food. It’s hard for me to guess why I wasn’t allowed to eat; I’m sure it’s a combination of food rules and other abusive nonsense. But the waitress there could see I needed food. Probably could see I was underweight. She would pass me jelly packets for me to pocket and eat later. One day she found an excuse to bring me toast, and when people told me I shouldn’t have it she asserted her matriarchal authority to overrule my male companions on matters of child rearing. Told me that, for that one minute, I could have what I needed and other people weren’t allowed to tell me no. She didn’t keep me from going hungry. She didn’t save me from my individual prison camp. But she made one day better for one minute and it’s one of the few positive memories I have from my childhood. So be someone’s waitress.
Headed back to Seattle today. Back to Dog and pillows I don’t hate and away from some of the traumay brain attaches to travel. I feel like I made some progress, seeing how packing and transportation and food access all trigger me about the times I was sent away. Helped me remember they exist in the first place. I’ve slowly been remembering some of the ways I was sent away locally, but the long distance stuff wasn’t really accessible to me. It’s a lot to take, but like all the other punishment parts of my past it’s a thing I have to get past to become a real boy. And I have to imagine being a real boy, because the life where I don’t sucks.
By administrative oversight I got to skip colonial enforcement at the border. I was prepared for compliance (to the extent I can fake being prepared for compliance) but they just skipped me and Shanda. Which is a relief. I am always only 1 step away from being arrested in such situations. Or maybe 2, now that I’m older and richer, but still much closer than I can be comfortable. It seems extra hard today, when I’m feeling all oppressiony. Hopefully my inconsistent colonial paperwork won’t lead to future problems.
This weekend was also hard for Shanda. You’ve got all your own travel triggers. Maybe not from abandoned on the road trauma, but certainly not good times. It puts you back in a place where you weren’t able to cope, and where enduring until you got home and could cry alone was the only option. I know what that’s like, holding on until some indefinite future when you can get back to a thing you know how to handle. And I stressed you out by talking about my life. I’m sorry that it’s hard to support me. I know I share feels that are a lot for people to take. I’m sorry to do it when you’re feeling like you won’t be able to cope until we get home. We’ll be home soon. You’ll have Dog back.
I should send these as soon as I’ve got a complete thought. Saving them just makes them long and slow, and I’ve been trying to stop that.
ZiB
—
Sent from a phone.
