NOT THE VERY BUTTON

Me: *watches The Substance*

Me: I don’t know what you want me to say. If you’re not into this you’re wrong.

Earlier this year two Mormon missionaries found their way to my doorstep.

I rent a second floor walk up with a lofted bedroom and horrific plumbing. I chose this apartment for three main reasons: the location, the space, and the natural light. I have so many windows, glorious huge windows and they keep me sane. I crave the sunlight but I have the constitution of a withering Victorian socialite so heavy direct UV exposure is a no go.

I use the dining room as my work-from-home office and my desk sits against one of those massive windows. It looks directly onto my front porch walkway and the sidewalk below.

So I saw the missionaries coming. I watched them bounce from front door to front door adjusting their shirt collars and wiping sweat from their brows. The two young men looked about 19 or so. I’m 31 now, but I remember being 19 so clearly. I remember how lost I’d been, but I don’t remember feeling as young as these two seemed to me now.

It was blistering outside, the Texas summer in full, nauseating swing, but they seemed determined to hit the whole complex. I put on a bra in anticipation of their arrival.

When they did reach my door, I was ready. I’d practiced my little speech. I do that. Every important conversation I know I need to have? I talk myself through it over and over until I feel I’ve chosen the right words and the right tone. It’s compulsive maybe, but this was important.

They knocked. My cat sprinted from the living room to the dining room in fear. I opened the door with one hand, two water bottles held in the other.

“Hello there!” One of them said — I don’t remember which. One was blond, the other had darker hair.

“Hi!” I was suddenly very conscious of how much skin I was showing. You could see my bra straps and my cropped tank was front tucked into a pair of shorts that I’m sure most people would think were a reasonable length, but who knows. I’d been out of the Christianity game too long.

“We were just wondering if you had a minute to talk,” the blond one said.

I took a deep breath.

“I’m gay, actually”—I didn’t feel like getting into the minutiae of my identity. Gay was all they needed to know—“and not religious, and not interested in changing either of those things, so I don’t really want to chat.”

They nodded.

“But, it’s so hot out there, would you guys like some water?” I held out the water bottles.

There was a moment of hesitation, but they did take the water.

“Thank you so much,” the dark haired one said, before cracking the lid and gulping down a third of the bottle.

“Of course.” I said. “Please be careful and take care of yourselves,”

“We will,” said the blond.

And that was that. I sent them on their way and shut the door behind them.

I am frequently enraged by injustice. My therapist likes to say that anger is my super power. I spent so many years not letting myself be angry at anyone but myself. So now, when I’m able to harness that anger and channel it toward something righteous I am kind of unstoppable.

Anger is important. Rage can be fuel. But there is a time and a place for it. In that moment, faced with two young men I knew would judge me for my appearance and my lifestyle and my non-interest in their god, compassion was the greater weapon. I could not fault them for their indoctrination. I could only offer a separate narrative:

That I, a queer godless woman, didn’t slam the door in their face or tell them to fuck off or confirm what they have been taught to believe about people like me. I wished them well. I gave them water. I offered them kindness. Maybe it’s stupid. Maybe I’m naive, but I hope I served as a tiny indicator that the world outside their bubble is not as heartless or cruel as they have been led to believe.

In the coming days there will be a time for anger. We will need this fuel to carry on in the face of tyranny. But there will also be a time for a compassion. There has to be. Softness is not weakness. Small acts of generosity are what community is built on. I want to continue to be kind, even as the world seeks to harden me.

My very first office job (and my third job ever) was as a grunt level employee for a small insurance company in my hometown. I made geographical determinations for them, and I would explain that further, because “making geographical determinations” is an insanely vague job description, but the truth is the logistics of this job were boring and you do not care about them. Just know I spent lots of time looking at maps and searching databases for old land surveys and it was very dull.

But I liked it. It was a great job for a 19 year old kid. I worked part time in a quiet, air-conditioned office building. I never had to deal with customers. I had my own little cubicle and I was left to my own devices. I did a lot of writing during that time. No one cared and no one bothered me.

I was, however, not very good at my job. In my defense, I wasn’t trying to be good at my job. It was a way to pass the time and earn some money while I went to community college. I was devastated to be back in my parents’ house following a disastrous first semester at a state school. I had returned home depressed and disillusioned, tail tucked firmly between my legs.

I was bored and angry and dealing with a level of trauma I wouldn’t fully begin to unpack until I was well into my twenties.

I worked there for about a year, applied to a different university, got in, and quit the insurance job when I moved cities to attend school. A lot of shit happened over the following four years, which I could go into but we’d be here all day. I’ll sum it up thusly: after a number of mental breakdowns and professional failures, I wound up right back at my parent’s house in my hometown and I called up my old insurance gig to see if I could have my job back.

They tried to offer me a different job working in their call center. I gave it a shot for a single shift, had a massive panic attack, and quit the next day. I asked the woman in HR if there was any way I could go back to making determinations like I had in the past. She let me know it wouldn’t be possible as I had been so bad at the job the first time around, they couldn’t justify hiring me in that position again.

At the time, this was so fucking shameful. I felt humiliated and worthless. I sobbed on the way home and told virtually no one. It was a deeply painful experience.

It’s been almost a decade since that happened and just now, while getting ready for bed, I thought about that old insurance job and I laughed. I fucking laughed. Remembering 19 year old me sitting at that dumb little cubicle putting in zero effort and writing short stories on the clock is a joyful memory now, tinted rosy with age. Getting told I couldn’t have that job back because I was such an abysmal employee is hilarious to me in retrospect.

Being a human is equal parts comedic and sorrowful, but it always shocks me how these parts so easily coexist. There was a time in my life when I couldn’t fathom not being shattered by the rejection of that stupid insurance company and now it’s a delightful anecdote I giggle to myself about.

The past is so often painful for me, but it seems important to remember that I will not always feel the same way about that pain. I will still see it and know that it existed, but the pangs themselves will dull over time and someday I may not feel them at all. I am temporary, my experiences fleeting, and there is both heartache and beauty to be found in that.