by Carr, Suzie
“But, what—”
He stood up. “—just tell a story.” He patted my head and walked out of my condo’s door leaving me with countless permutations of stories I could tell.
Chapter Eleven
A blank screen is as scary and intimidating to a writer as an expansive desert with no sign of life or water is to a thirsty, lost traveler. It sucked any productive, lucid thought from the mind and rendered the person useless, the edges of her creativity tattered, shriveled, curled up, and unable to produce much of anything but crap.
Crap. Yup, that pretty much summed up my writing so far that night. I typed a sentence with no meat to it. I erased said sentence only to falter at the sight of the blank screen again. So, I typed a few more words that pretty much sat there tormenting me, like a bully sticking her tongue out at me, mocking me for my useless attempt to create something uplifting and positive out of my faulty personality.
Writer’s block sucked. Did all writers suffer? How did these bestselling novelists who shot off a book every three months do it? Were they just born with lucky writers’ brains chock-full of brilliant ideas that they could tap into at any given time? Did they sit at their computers and instantly fill the blank screen with words that people would want to read? Did the ideas spill out of their brains like a waterfall, deliberate, focused, and purposeful?
I stuck out my tongue to the blank screen, angry at it for tormenting me so. I had no story to tell. Why would a bunch of bullied teenagers want to read my words, my thoughts, my advice to them on how to live their best life while someone pounded on their hearts with mean, hurtful, vicious attack?
The longer I stared, the whiter the screen glowed. So, I did what any writer probably did when faced with such devilish torment. I turned to the Internet for distraction.
I ventured onto Twitter and read Eva’s newest message to me.
“Missing me or not, honey?”
My heart swelled and formed a light, breezy melody that frolicked around, tickling me, kissing me, warming the coldest regions that up until that moment had never allowed in the sunshine. I loved this girl.
I wanted her to see me in my best light, always. I wanted to stand before her and watch her face grow into a smile that streamed light and love from her pure heart. I wanted her eyes to drip with admiration for me, the girl I really was, the girl she loved back. I wanted to have a moment with her where the two of us stood facing one another on a mountain top surrounded by blue skies and puffy white clouds and birds flying ahead singing their song, and have her caress me with her loving eyes. I wanted to be that girl she believed me to be—strong, intelligent, insightful, full of promise and intrigue, and romance.
I wanted to be that girl who could stir a person’s soul with her words, touching people with viewpoints that changed the world. I wanted to be that girl who inspired, encouraged, and enriched lives through careful reasoning, bringing up questions others were too afraid to ask, too afraid to ponder. I wanted to dissect social injustice and lay it out on the line for people to see the real deal. I yearned to expose the raw emotions that erupted when idiots threw their fists into the faces of innocent people just trying to get by in the world, just trying to blend in and be a part of society like every other person had a right to do. I wanted to take the bullied by the hand and show them they didn’t have to stand for the abuse. They could rise up above the chaos and shed their light onto the world instead of snuffing it out in the dark corners of their abused minds. They didn’t have to hide in the shadows of people who didn’t have a clue about compassion, people who would rather trip a girl then lend a hand in helping her back to her feet, who would rather laugh at the unfortunate humiliation of another instead of standing up for that person and laughing with her instead. I wanted to give voice to these bullied victims who lied down with their heads buried in the sand, choking on grit, burning up under the scorching firestorms, suffering the consequences of that first lashing, that first scarring, that first public humiliation that turned a potential bright star into fizzled-out stardust at the hands of the most incapable, most destructive, most lethal form of human beings on the planet—bullies.
Bullies were just fearful individuals, too, full of poison fed to them by bullies before them. I knew this to be true. I had been one. I shelled out the hurt and caused permanent damage to not only the victims, but their families, their would-be lovers, would-be friends, would-be constituents, would-be colleagues.
My anger superseded any fear I had of white space at the moment. I started typing out a four beat rhythm with my fingertips, slashing the consequences of fear with my words, and building up a safe place, a refuge for the injured. This safe place contained greenery that filtered the toxins from their lungs, reenergized their skin cells, and restored them to their precious state of pre-bully days. This oasis for the victims shined with sunlight twenty-four seven and sprinkled mist to soften and replenish their spirits, leaving rainbows to remind these people that hope lived, hope flourished, and the promise of coming out of this hell storm alive and unscathed as a productive member of society was still possible. The answer to dealing with bullies was not bowing down to their attacks and allowing them to steal their souls, their light source, that special thing that raised them up on their unique pedestal. No, the answer was not to fight back. That only antagonized. The answer was to dig deep, find power from within, find their special gifts, and shine that sucker on their bullies so brightly that all not willing to see its beauty would simply be stilled by it.
This process of realization needed to take place long before the rocks pelted, before the feet tripped, before the laughter escaped the bully’s mouth. Every person had a life source, and along the way this life source was either kicked to the furthest recesses of her body and covered up in the shroud of doubts, despair, and fear, or it sprang forth and powered the person to move forth in the world proudly, acknowledging her gift and sharing it with the world. Someone would cherish the gift. And even if one person cherished it, wasn’t that enough?
I kept typing. The words just flew out of my brain and onto the keyboard. I imagined Eva reading it, her lips curling up into a smile at the honesty and integrity behind the words. She’d be my proud cheerleader, hoping one day I’d create something just as beautiful for her. I wanted her to admire me for this gift that was all mine and not CarefreeJanie’s. She — my muse, my saving grace — sat front row to my words.
I continued typing feverishly, my soul unleashing itself onto the computer screen. Tears ran down my cheeks. I landed in a zone. I thought of that young boy being bullied and wondered about his life source. Maybe he was an artist who painted meaning onto a canvas and one day that painting would touch someone so profoundly. The ripple effect would touch the lives of many, maybe even save a life or two or more. Or what if he was fantastic at pitching a baseball and could be that boy who brought a group of twenty kids to the playoffs giving hope to not only the team, but the parents, the siblings, the community. Or maybe that kid was really good at seeing the best in others and would one day counsel someone on the verge of a nervous breakdown and save that person through his brilliant ability to pull out of him his magical healing gift.
We need solutions, I wrote.
Bullies will always exist. A society cannot spray bullies down and wipe out their inclinations to torment like we can do to cockroaches. They might move out of one life, but assuredly, they’ll find a way to move into another life before long. They will always exist. So, where are we, as a society, to better face our focus? If we can’t eradicate the behavior, what then?
If we can’t change them, who do we change? I asked.
If we can’t control their actions, whose do we control?
We can’t control others, but we can control the way we react to others.
So, this boy, getting laughed at and passed around like a hot potato couldn’t control the others, but he could’ve controlled how he reacted to them. Fear and insecurity no doubt swelled in his chest as his heart pounded, his
flesh clammed up and his scared mind envisioned his fatal demise right there on the sidewalk at the hands of derelicts who controlled his world at that moment in time. What was a kid to do under such dire circumstances? Put up his fists and fight off four others who stood taller, and had the comfort and security of numbers on their side? Certainly the boy grew up playing video games and not practicing martial arts, so to fight back would be irresponsible advice.
I sat back, stumped, with no clue where to go from here. How could’ve this scrawny kid turned the situation around? Best reaction? Duck, roll, and run? Feasible? Hardly when cornered by this swarm of idiots. Toss out a comedic phrase and hope they latch on and laugh like the kid’s the funniest thing since Robin Williams? Hardly. The kid could barely breathe let alone conjure up witty words to escape his mouth.
What fueled a bully? What fueled a fire? Kindling. Fear disguised itself as just another form of kindling. Toss fear into an escalating situation and it exploded into something grander than it had to be. Its flames would shoot up to the tops of trees if stoked enough. Extinguish the fear, extinguish the flame, and end the torture, the burning, and the smoldering. What was left? Ash. The brilliant thing about ash was that it could be swept away by a gentle breeze. All the fear that once created the flames that produced the ash weren’t so heavy and powerful anymore when a gentle breeze could come and blow it away into nonexistence.
Squash the fear, end the victimization.
Everyone came equipped with different resources. My way of squashing fear would be far different than Eva’s way or Larry’s way or this boy’s way. We owed it to ourselves to dig deep and find out what tools we had in our disposal to crush the shit out of our fears so we could get on living our best days. Those who helped guide others to find and lend their tools would reap rewards far too powerful for any bully to come in and swipe them away. The leverage in digging deeper, in serving others, offered power. When a person came outside of this shell to protect another, he helped erase fear and replace it with a light so powerful no one could extinguish it.
I ended on a question. Is this the secret? Find the good even in your enemy and bring it out?
I sat back and smirked at the screen filled with words. I couldn’t wait to share this with Eva.
# #
I edited the story a few dozen times and then sent it off to Eva. Within fifteen minutes she responded back with twenty exclamation points. Yup – twenty.
My heart soared.
I then forwarded my essay to Larry on a Monday after refining it a couple dozen more times. He barged into my condo moments later in tears, hugging me and telling me he’d never read anything as touching and beautiful. Something strange occurred as he congratulated me.
Instead of balking at his praise as just another fluffy, friendly thing he did, I allowed it in, absorbed it, and cherished it.
I deserved the praise. The piece shined.
Larry promised to publish it in the newsletter that Wednesday.
In between bouts of elation, where I skipped and frolicked in the wonderful paradise of a serious writer’s high, Eva and I flirted like crazy with each other. She would say things to me like, “I’d love to be with you, just the two of us hanging out in a grassy field, wind gently blowing, enjoying you in my arms.” And, I would respond with a reserved, “Ah. So beautiful.”
Her sweet, loving words sent me reeling and took my mind off of waiting for Wednesday’s newsletter release. On Thursday afternoon while at work, after reading my essay in the newsletter ten times, Eva and I hooked up online.
“Come, let’s have lunch, honey,” she wrote.
“I’m eating right now,” I said offering a smile.
“I want you to eat lunch with me.”
“Yum, I'd like that. If only I had a private jet to get me there quickly enough. What would you feed me?”
“Well, I’m standing in the main headquarters branch right now and they’re serving up some yummy Indian food,” she wrote. “I just piled my plate with daal, roti, butter milk, salad, papad, and veggies cooked in different gravies called sabji.” She continued. “Oh, and apparently it’s mango season, so we also have ripe mangoes. Yum.”
I stuck my fork in my mango. My blood pressure spiked. My temples throbbed. Even my earlobes beat with vigor. I dropped my roti onto my daal and scrunched down low in my seat. A bead of sweat sprang onto my forehead. My skin pricked. The little hairs on the back of my neck stood up at attention. I could hear her laughing along with Sanjeev and Katie. “Doreen,” I whispered over my cubicle. She didn’t answer. I bent low and snuck around to her cube. She wasn’t there. Then, I heard her cackle coming towards me, and Eva asked her if she preferred white rice to brown. I glanced around planning an escape. Then they rounded the corner to our aisle and there I stood, crouched down like a cat ready to pounce over the cubicle walls. My face lit up like a red Christmas bulb. I knelt down and pretended to be fixing my sandal. Katie followed right behind them.
“Hey, Jane, there’s still some more food in the collaboration room,” Doreen rang out.
I didn’t look up. Instead, I rose and pretended to be plucking lint from my shirt, hiding my beads of sweat and flushed face. “Thanks,” I whispered and scooted into my cubicle.
Eva’s eyes followed me. I wanted to die.
My Twitter profile filled my screen. I ran in front of the screen to block it and turn it off. Any more shocks, and I would’ve surely passed out.
“Jane, is it?” Eva asked.
I swallowed hard, wiped my forehead with my bare forearm and turned to meet her smiling eyes and extended hand.
“We meet again,” she said.
I tripped over my insecurity. “Yes.”
“I heard you’re going to be writing that piece for the public service announcement.”
Katie coughed.
I couldn’t look directly at Eva, so I landed on Doreen who stood guard against Katie only inches away. I escaped to her concerned eyes. “Yes, isn’t that right Doreen?” I nodded at her, begging her with frantic eyes to save me.
“She’s the best.”
“So I hear.” Eva looked down at my sandals. “At least you know how to match your shoes.” She crawled her eyes back up to meet mine and winked. My heart exploded. My flush reignited.
My eyes darted every which way afraid to set too long on hers. If she recognized them, my life would unravel faster than I could save it.
I reached behind me and gathered my plate overflowing with Indian food. “Please excuse me.” I brushed by her. She even smelled sexy. “I’m going to get a little more.”
She chuckled, staring at my plate. “It’s good stuff. I don’t blame you.”
I rushed up the aisle, rounded the corner, tossed my plate in the trash, and took off to the bathroom where I prayed I’d find some solitude.
Standing in the stall, I tweeted her back. “Wait, so you’re in Maryland again and didn’t tell me?”
A few seconds later, she messaged me back. “They called me last night, and I’m leaving right away back to New York this afternoon to lead an event.”
“Oh, what a bummer.” I played the part well. “So, you said something about mangoes? I love mangoes. I also love roti.”
“Ah that’s why I like you so much.”
“Mmm. I can say the same about you.” How best could I end this? “Enjoy your lunch, Eva. Think of me as you’re spooning some mangoes between those yummy lips of yours (wink).” I ended the messaging with a big virtual hug and kiss and promise to reconnect later when we both returned home.
Five minutes later, safely back in my cubicle and Eva tucked away into the boardroom, Larry called me.
“Your story was a hit. The analytics on that page are showing six hundred and thirty-three hits since yesterday. We typically get fifty or so per page.”
A huge smile sprang to life. I squealed. “Am I getting a raise?”
“I’ll see to it that you get a company car, too.”
“I love
you, my friend.”
“I love you more,” Larry said. “Oh, and be sure to check your email. You may get some responses because I included your email address at the end of your article.”
I memorized my short story enough to have already known this.
“Will do,” I said. “Oh, Larry. Thank you for asking me to write it. What a rush.”
“Good because we need more.”
“I’ll get started on more right away.” I hung up on a smile.
“Hey, Doreen?” I asked.
She popped up. “Glad to see you’re back to your normal color.”
“Was it that obvious?”
“You were purple at one point.” She scrunched her face. “You looked adorable. You have such a crush on her, don’t you?”
I groaned. “Stop.” I raised up my hand. “Can you tell Sanjeev I’m working the rest of the day from home?”
“Are you feeling alright?”
“Yes. But you’re going to tell him no.” I pointed my finger at her. “Right?”
“Right.” She winked and disappeared back over to her side.
# #
For two days, I received numerous emails thanking me for writing the story. Some sailed in from grandparents, from parents, from teachers, from school administrators, and one even came in from a former bully. “I knew I hurt people, but I didn’t realize just how deep I cut until I read this. I am a few years past those horrible days when I used to bully a classmate of mine, but not a day goes by that I don’t regret what I did. Reading this story hurt for obvious reasons, and I needed to hurt. Sometimes in life we need these painful reminders to keep us pointed in the right direction. Thank you for sharing and for opening up a pathway to greater change.”
I sat in my cubicle at work with a knot in my throat, pushing back the tears when I clicked into the next message from a boy named Travis.
Ms. Knoll, I just wanted to let you know how much your story has meant to me. Just three days ago, I sat in my bedroom with a revolver in my mouth ready to pull the trigger. I contemplated my troubles and spent several hours with my finger on the trigger trying to decide if shooting myself would be better or if I should just swallow a bottle of pills. I couldn’t decide. So, I stuck to my original idea and left that gun in my mouth, ready to shoot when bravery kicked in. It never did kick in that day.