How I Made Myself the Victim

Song Recommendation: My Chemical Romance - Bulletproof Heart

- shin

I am the one pointed at.

I am the one who learns which remarks are better met with a laugh.
The one who goes home afterward and permits the face to fall.
The one who works, contributes, pays, participates, and remains perpetually prepared to furnish evidence of having earned the privilege of being here.

And, curiously, I am also the one responsible for the lesson.

I must explain carefully.
Patiently.
Without accusation.

I must consider where you come from, what you were taught, what you have yet to understand. I must account for your fears, your upbringing, your ignorance, your discomfort. I must remember that change takes time.

I must extend to you every generosity that becomes increasingly conditional when extended to me.

Tone is important.

I cannot be angry; anger makes the lesson difficult to receive.
I cannot be cold; that would be unkind.
I cannot withdraw; that would accomplish nothing.
I cannot refuse; how else will anyone learn?

And I certainly cannot despair.

Despair has a way of appearing theatrical when the person experiencing it has already been deemed dramatic.

So I have learned to be measured.

To discuss my own humanity as though proposing an amendment to the minutes.

To make the case without making anyone feel implicated in it.

To describe fear without sounding afraid.
To describe humiliation without humiliating anyone.
To describe cruelty without suggesting that anyone has been cruel.

There is an extraordinary etiquette to all of this.

One must know how to be wounded correctly.

There are standards.

The wound must be visible enough to warrant sympathy, but never so visible that it becomes an accusation. Grief is acceptable in modest quantities. Anger is less fashionable. Bitterness, naturally, undermines credibility altogether.

And should I object too loudly to any of it, there is always a word waiting for me.

Victim.

I confess, this is where the arrangement becomes almost elegant.

To be diminished, and then chastised for noticing the diminution.

To watch the perimeter of one's life grow narrower and be warned against mistaking the walls for walls.

To be asked, with remarkable sincerity, whether perhaps I have simply developed an unfortunate habit of feeling cornered.

Perhaps.

Perhaps I have misunderstood the architecture entirely.

Perhaps the walls are not closing in.

Perhaps I am simply standing incorrectly.

I will try to remember that next time.

And, of course, I will try to explain it more kindly.