Unfriend Me

"I love you, Darcy. I love your spunk, love your humor, and love that you were so kind to me at a time when no one was. But Friend, I've unfriended you on FB and here's why. It seems most every time I post anything political or even the very mention of their names, you rant on my wall. I get it, you are unhappy about the election. But Darcy, I'm not unhappy about it. It saddens me that there's such a divide between us. And no amount of ranting will change it. I wish you all the best and I hope we can remain friends in real life."

Is being "unfriended" the same thing as losing a friend?

I've known Renee for almost two decades. We worked on the same crew together for a year, but we also spent a good part of our spare time together as well, laughing about nonsense, watching rom-coms, smoking, trading dating war stories. I taught her cat how to fetch. We shared a work "brother" - we'll call him Austin - and together we traveled, drank shots, cranked out sports TV. With me, she was wonderfully generous with her time, her good nature and humor, and her cheerful support. 

With others, she wasn't always so easy; I ran interference for her several times - within our work group and eventually with the director - and I advocated for her fiercely, as you would, of course, for a dear friend. When a veteran freelancer shattered her confidence, I reassured her, recommended her to colleagues, and even contacted that freelancer before they worked together again, asking her to take Renee under her wing.

So.

Years later, Renee posted that Mike Pence was visiting her town and that she feared violence from protesters. I wished safety for her, the police, and the protesters. I also said that I would have joined the protest because Pence’s policies endangered gay and transgender people, including people I love.

That was the “rant” that got me unfriended.

I told Renee I wasn’t simply unhappy about an election. Pence had supported policies that could cost my loved ones their jobs, access to services, and physical safety. Fighting for people who are being bullied wasn’t a departure from the person she knew. It was the same instinct that had once made me fight for her.

Renee said she wanted Facebook to be a source of joy: friends, children, pets, and everyday life. Fair enough. 

But she hadn’t posted a puppy. She had posted about a political event and her fear of protesters. I had responded with my fear for people threatened by the politician they were protesting.

She insisted her post wasn’t political. Her fears were her own, she said, and we didn’t have to fear the same things.

That was true. I didn’t need her to share my fear. I needed her to acknowledge it.

I had validated her fear, despite there being no violence. I repeatedly told her that I feared for the safety of people I loved, based on policies Pence had actually supported. Not once did she say, “I’m sorry you have to be afraid for them.”

That was when I finally understood we weren’t friends in real life, either. 

Geography had merely allowed us to preserve the fiction. A friend doesn’t have to agree with you politically, but a friend should care when you say, plainly and repeatedly, “The people I love are provably in danger.”

Maybe Renee will someday understand that empathy isn’t agreement. It’s the willingness to recognize another person’s fear even when it disrupts your peaceful Facebook feed.

Or maybe she’ll simply decide I’m just an angry woman.

Anger seems like a reasonable response when someone values the appearance of kindness more than the practice of it.

What've You Got in that Bag?

Years ago, I went to see a play "The Curse of the Starving Class" at Sac State with my boyfriend Mez. I was quite ill with bronchitis, but I really wanted to go, because my dear friend Dan was in it and so was my former drama teacher, George Roth. Rather than stay home and recuperate from a respiratory illness that was bordering on walking pneumonia, I took a bottle of codeine cough syrup to sip from quietly, so I wouldn't disturb the audience by coughing. These were the types of decisions I made in my twenties. 

Anyway, when we got there, Mez said, "Uh-oh." A friend of his sister's, let's call her Cynthia, was at the play. She hated me, because she asked Mez out on a date about seven minutes after he and I started going out, so she felt like I had stolen him from her. She also hated me because I had been in a class with her in junior college, and I guess I was annoying, according to what she told Mez's sister, who told Mez, who then told me. This stressed me out. I couldn't even remember her, so I couldn't judge if maybe I had done something awful, which would make me terrible, or if I wasn't so bad, in which case she was unreasonable and maybe I wasn't so terrible. These were the types of things that bothered me in my twenties. 

The play started and all I remember about it is that George and Dan were really good and that I was desperately suppressing coughs and swilling opiate cough syrup. Also, there was full frontal nudity by a guy in the cast (not George or Dan) and there was simulated pissing. Bet you haven't seen that. 

So, after the play, I ran up to Dan and hugged him because I wanted to get away from Cynthia's dislike, and after chatting briefly, he said there was a girl in the audience who hated him, because she had asked out his boyfriend Joe, and Joe had told her he was gay and dating Dan. Of course, it was Cynthia. So, now I was the person who had stolen Mez and I was happily hugging the man she had just found out had stolen Prospect #2 from her, like, the night before. 

I fled outside. George Roth was out there, talking to people. He had an opaque white paper bag, the size of a lunch bag, in his hands. Rather desperately, I said, jokingly, "What've got in that ba-a-a-ag? TOOTSIE POPS?" 

George looked at me with a pleased expression. He reached into the bag and withdrew...a Tootsie Pop. He unwrapped it deliberately, showed it to me pointedly, put it in his mouth, nodded, and walked slowly away. 

A Bad Interview

Years ago, I said jokingly to my boyfriend, "I'm going to get a job, working in a Victorian on the corner of 25th and K." Like an HOUR later, I got a call from my recruiter to interview for a job at...25th and K.
When I went in, I was convinced it was fate and that I would get the job. The receptionist said, "So...you're here for the job?" and I nodded. She gave me MEANINGFUL EYES OF DEATH and an almost imperceptible shake of the head. There was no way to misinterpret it.
I stared at her, but I had no chance to ask her what she meant, as a man came out immediately from his office and called me in. He started describing the job, but I was busy trying to figure out WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT OUT THERE when, possibly sensing my inattention, he stopped suddenly and said, "What do you think?" I rallied. I said, gamely, "Well, that sounds very similar to my last job. There, I was responsible for..." and I started rattling off my own list of job duties, reeling inside, because I was quickly concluding that he was a dick.
I let my eyes drift over to the fireplace. As I continued to speak, the words he had been saying began to sink in, and I realized that nothing I was currently saying had any connection to the things he had said. I doubled my efforts, trying to find a way to give some relevance to what I was saying, to connect the skills I had just listed to the requirements he had rattled off, but I couldn't bring it around. I couldn't overcome the centrifugal force; I had been thrown too far afield to make my way back. Eventually, I just......stopped talking. In the middle of a sentence. Something like "I was responsible for curating articles on..." And then just...nothing.
I looked up from the fireplace and sighed, and we both said, "Well!" and we both pushed back from the desk and stood up at the same time. It was AWESOME. On my way out, I gave the receptionist my NO FUCKING WAY face with a heaping helping of "Phew!" She beamed. A couple days later, I interviewed for and got a fantastic job, working for a woman-owned ad agency. It was great. It was kitty-corner, on the corner of 25th and K.
THIS IS ALL TRUE.