2004-01-05

Sometimes I wonder if people know when they're evil. I mean, people (sane, everyday people that aren't serial killers or even athletes) do truly evil things to other people. Do they know that if life were a movie they'd be the villain? Do they have any idea that they are not She-ra, but Catra? Because I think most people see themselves as the hero.

I was standing in line at Blockbuster a couple weeks ago. Just standing in line, not bothering anybody when a lady with kids behind me started small-talking me. I'm a big small-talker. I like to have pleasant mini-chats with people I'll never see again. That's the kind of a hairpin I am. There were some late-teenage boys in front of me and when I looked away from the lady, I saw one of them mocking me to the delight of his friend. When I faced them, I sort of poked my head around and smiled at the guy as if to say, "Go on, Kid. Do it to my face." He clammed up, of course. I think I handled it well. But, as I walked to my car, I felt small. I felt like I was back in eighth grade and the jocks were making their obligatory lunchtime circle around me as I walked to the observatory. And I wonder why I have problems with men and trust issues. There's the culprit. Doesn't make the issues magically disappear, but I know the cause.

Anyhow, did they have any idea it was mean? Actually, I'm sure they did. But they were caught up in group mentality. And maybe I should leave the male of the species out of this argument, either way. They're judged on a different scale. Sensitivity to others is percieved as a weakness. I hate to lump all men in there, but the guy that says, "Wait, Fellas. I think we're hurting someone's feelings." is going to be laughed out of the weight room, pelted with tampax.

But women. There's another story. No woman wants to see herself as the villain. She wants to be the quirky, but likeable heroine. Or the steadfast survivor with a heart of gold. She doesn't want to be Catra. She doesn't want the villagers to cower when she strolls into the square.

My sister used to be awful to me, seriously awful. I won't paint it like I didn't secretly bring it on. I played the martyr so well, I invited evil to my doorstep. But there was pain there. She hurt me in a lot of ways. And I can count on one hand the times I retaliated (Modern April would find ways to do so, but Preteen and Teen April didn't want to get off her cross). Did she know? Did she see herself as the villain? Do people actually look inside themselves and find their inner villain? Do they actually choose to let it play and storm the village? Or are they unaware at the time and even after?

In school, the popular girls had this skill. I may have mentioned it. They look at you, look at each other, then giggle. It gives you that sinking realization that some serious smack was or was about to be talked on you. I hated that. Once, I retaliated. I told them I didn't care what they thought. They were just a couple of snobs. The reaction was explosive.

How dare I call them snobs? Me? Calling them snobs? Why I wasn't good enough to call them by their first names. What nerve, I say.

I went so far as to pull the dictionary out of my desk and point out the meaning of the word to assure them the truth that they were, in fact, snobs.

Don't remember what That dictionary said, but here's what American Heritage Dictionary gives us:

1. One who tends to patronize, rebuff, or ignore people regarded as social inferiors and imitate, admire, or seek association with people regarded as social superiors. 2. One who affects an offensive air of self-satisfied superiority in matters of taste or intellect.

Strangely, this didn't win any favor with them. By lunch, it was all over school that I had called them snobs. Every popular girl in school, girls in higher and lower grades that I didn't even know, were ganging up on me in hallways and reading me the riot act for calling them snobs. "You called Pam and Diane snobs. I can't believe you did that. You're the snob. Blah, blah, blah, I have no mind of my own."

These girls were stunned that they were called snobs. Truly stunned. I was like, "But you are. How can you not see that?" I mean, if they were watching Pretty in Pink, would they think they were Molly Ringwald? Seriously? They probably would. This amazes me. They are picking on me for a percieved lower status. They are sooo That Other Girl I Can't Remember The Name Of. It just floors me that they don't see it.

But this is me we're talking about. I don't sleep at night because I'm too busy examining every, single thing I do or even think of doing. Is it possible to have too much self-awareness? But I can't help thinking it's better than convincing yourself that doing eeeeeeevil things to others is somehow justified. I can hear the argument of, "Oh, I'd never do that to Amber, but it's different when I do it to her."

So, I'll keep over-analyzing me and everyone else, I guess. it's what an April does when she should be sleeping.