#3: tattle tale talk to terminate toxicity

10.09.2023 - Vienna

Three events, which occurred within a 24 hour period last week, served as excellent reminders of just how uncomfortable I feel - and have pretty much always felt - around those men who choose to lean into the most toxic impulses. Being anywhere near those men just isn’t for me.

Unfortunately, they’re all over the fuckin’ place.

Before I recount those happenings, two pieces of context.

First, there’s the job I’ve now started in Vienna. It’s unconventional, and a little bit annoying, but even considering the requirement that I spend seven and a half hours on my feet, it’s also pretty darn easy.

The job gives me ample opportunity to think, and write, without anybody telling me what I can and cannot write about.

I’m finding, as I embark upon these weekly projects, that I prefer to let myself follow experiences, rather than press releases, as factors determining what I’m going to be thinking and writing about.

Who’da thunk it.

This job is for a micro-mobility company (a clause in my contract prevents me from naming them), which essentially requires me to spend 40 hours a week riding around the city, collecting the company’s (and all its competitors’) vehicles, before parking them correctly.

The theory is that as a result of my work, and the work of those like me, the city will refrain from pulling a Paris, and banning these vehicles outright.

I’m contracted for four months of labour, and will spend that time roaming, working and exploring the the city I’ve just moved to - while also affording me the privilege of… affording to be able to live here.

In some ways, probably most, it’s a sweet gig. Despite that, it is clear to me after just a week on the job that I’m already feeling quite bored. I do think that I’ll soon want a more interestingchallenge - something which engages my critical faculties, rather than requiring constant, active effort in order to keep them engaged.

That said, because Austrian labour standards are hilarious - a lot of people here take this in stride, as though this is just how things are, because for them, it is how things are - I will be paid twice in November. And I get holiday pay. And medical insurance.

I’m enough of a spoiled leftist to know that I’m still being exploited, and that my employer’s job is to extract more value from me than they send back my way. But if you’re going to be exploited (and without at least threatening to get out the guillotines, you are), might as well do it in a place which makes that exploitation comfortable, right?

(I just outlined the reason that lifelong bourgeois chillin’ like meself aren’t likely to start the revolution we so crave, didn’t I?)

On the job, I respond to reports and complaints, and patrol my districts looking for parking situations that only I can rectify. After all, it did take a full 45 minutes of training for me to be unleashed upon these streets.

Three days later, I trained a very stupid robot. A day after that, I trained a very competent human.

The second piece of context is that for as long as I can remember, I have been more comfortable -that is, less likely to feel physically on edge, or threatened- around people displaying stereotypically feminine traits, women, gender non-conforming people and girls than I have been around those of my own sex.

My gender identity, over the past few years, has been something I’ve come to understand increasingly as non-aligned with my sex and outward presentation, and I’ve found that revelation to be freeing, relieving, and affirming.

Whatever it means to be non-binary - which is really not a fixed construct, and can change pretty much every day for every individual - I am that.

I’m fairly sure. And also not sure at all. And it really doesn’t matter. I don’t get offended by someone using different pronouns, but they don’t mean anything much to me either, so why would I be?

I am the they/them mayhem.

I can’t say with certainty what came first.

If the egg (my thinking of myself as non-binary) is a result of the chicken (my having felt constantly and consistently threatened during interactions with boys and men as a child), or vice-versa, is still a topic I grapple with.

I very rarely find myself grappling with that thought when I’m by myself, which is when I do most of my best thinking.

Which is convenient, given the life I've lived.

Without the mental noise created by being around other people, and the anxiety I feel when I am around those people, I don’t think about gender.

To me, that fact is a testament to the reality of gender’s socially constructed nature. When I think about that, I think about how pointless a construct it really is.

Then again, as I keep having to remind myself when I say things like “fuck cars” or “fuck zoos”, its very easy for an individual to denounce the universal pointlessness of something which doesn’t have a point to them. But there’s a lot of evidence around me indicating that this particular construct is very important to a lot of other people.

Otherwise, why would so many people put so much of their self-identities into this idea?

That argument is one I have to remind myself, but not one with which I truly agree. If it was being made by somebody else, in response to my denunciation of the gender binary, I would argue that the binary - particularly in conjunction with the power of marketing in capitalist societies - is so oppressively ubiquitous from so early on in almost every individual’s life, that it can feel comforting.

It can feel like a foundation, not a structure built upon it.

We know so little about the world, about the universe, and about ourselves, that when we’re told as frightened children, from the very moment our genitals can be discerned, that we’re either “boys” or “girls” - statements which are reinforced through every interaction, decision and purchase for years to come - that anybody willing to question those “foundations” is being obtuse, denying reality, and even being disrespectful.

They aren’t attacking a construct, or a theory, if they’re going after the only thing you really feel like you know. Without that, what are you really certain about?

Personally, I find the fact that I’m certain about nothing - except the feeling instilled in me when I’m around individuals I love and respect - to be wholly liberating. Though I sincerely hope this doesn’t happen, even that caveat could one day fall away, following some sort of massive, earth-shaking betrayal.

I hope it doesn’t, but raging to stay open to keepin’ loosey goosey is not without its risks.

As a kid, I preferred to spend time with people I thought were girls than people I thought were boys, because it felt safer in every regard. To a pretty significant degree, as an almost 25-year-old, I’m finding that this trend never changed, and doesn’t seem to be making much progress towards doing so.

I can do the guy thing, now, a lot better than I ever could, and have a lot of male friends, but building trust takes a lot longer.

Even in romantic contexts, having felt a physical desire to go further with these people, that physical desire has been countered - and ultimately stifled by an overriding physical sensation.

Panic. Felt too risky to get frisky.

When I’m around men, or people who believe themselves to be men, even in the cases of those I’ve never been given any reason to distrust, I’m aware that I’m on edge in a way I’m just not when I’m around women, non-binary, or trans people. Sometimes, often, I hate that.

I don’t want to be untrusting, and I don’t want to be on edge. But, as is the case for almost everything, that feeling isn’t under my control.

If brevity is the soul of wit, my wit has well and truly worn through its shoes' bottoms. Here we go, three titillating tales:

1.

On the morning of my second day of work, I was walking through 16. Bezirk, Ottakring, carrying a heavy bag full of supplies for the day ahead, along with a wicker lamp, which I’d be bringing to our stunning new abode, before heading off to work.

I trundled past a park and saw a baby slung across the chest of a person pushing a pram with another baby in it, while holding one end of a lead with a very good dog attached at the other.

Fighting the urge to drop everything, roll over on the ground and play-fight the dog into oblivion, which would almost certainly not have been appreciated by the person attempting to wrangle all three different sets of sentient responsibilities, I smiled at them all and kept walking.

I didn’t register the two youths walking past me, towards the pack, and therefore failed to predict that they weren’t going to have my good sense not to fuck with their day.

I was alerted by the sound of the dog’s voice, and spun when I heard a deep, guttural growl.

My back was turned when I heard the first bark, but for the second, and every one which would follow, the scene had my undivided attention.

You can take this aspect of the narrative with a pinch of salt, but based on how calm the dog had been when I walked past - no less than two metres away and carrying a sizeable wicker lamp - something about this kid immediately tipped off the dog’s impeccable judgement. Danger.

I feel you, lil buddy.

One of the two young idiots was actively baring his teeth, and feigning lunges at the dog, and the dog’s family.

The little canine genius, a terrier of some sort, went absolutely ape. Tugging hard on their lead, which had almost slipped out of the pack leader’s hand, they jumped while snapping their jaws at the assailant.

The leader was practically begging the snarling idiot to back away, but the response was clear.

“Fuck off.”

The face-off continued, as the idiot’s mind tried to concoct a response to the dog’s warnings.

That mind settled, predictably, on the most idiotic possible reaction, doubling down. A leg swung out towards the dog, trying to kick them in the face.

I don’t know how much you know about canine anatomy, but except in cases of very, very poor breeding, their face tends to be where the teeth are stored.

If the kick’s motivation was to quell the barking, it was actually quite successful.

Hard to bark with a leg in your mouth.

The terrier’s teeth plunged into the soft flesh just above this asshole’s thigh, before quickly being wrenched out by the pack leader’s sharp tug.

The young idiot was shocked. Why oh why would a dog which quite clearly stated its intent to bite a person, after seemingly feeling provoked by that person, every actually bite that person?

Seem’s a little outta' left field.

The double down redoubled, and this quadrupling led to the assailant’s shoe, on the other foot, getting caught in expectant, open jowels. An impressive catch.

At this point, two other passers-by had stepped in - quite bravely, I should add, because that dog was seeing red (/smelling red, or seeing whatever red looks like on a limited dog colour spectrum) - and formed a human barricade between the young fool and the pack.

The terrier immediately went quiet, gazing up affectionately at the pack leader, seeking approval for a job well done.

The pack leader led the family away, backwards, after thanking the passers by who stood resolute, staring down the young fool who stilled appeared to feel wronged.

Though the human had been the one to escalate this dispute - a result of nothing at all - the dog is the one which could have had to face consequences.

They could have been forced to wear a muzzle whenever they were outside of the house, or even been put down. None of this would have happened had the terrier not been goaded by a person who really should have known better.

But he had something to prove.

2.

Later that day, when I’d been working for a few hours already, I was retrieving a vehicle and pushing it through 20. Bezirk, Brigittenau, towards the nearest bike rack. As I did so, I passed local residents on my left, on my right, and in each case, when I locked eyes with someone, I smiled.

I like smiling at people as I pass by. It makes me happy. Occasionally, it might make them happy too, and they’ll smile back. Often, they’ll look away. Sometimes, they appear confused.

A few weeks ago, on a day which had me feeling pretty jubilant - I had just gotten a job, and found out our application to a great flat (our new home) had been accepted - I was grinning at everyone.

One person I passed acknowledged my smile with a curt nod, didn’t look away, didn’t frown, didn’t appear angry or irritated, but didn’t smile back either. They held my gaze, and kept walking.

In that moment, I had a simple but lasting thought.

“That person, in this moment, might not have as much to smile about as you do. And that’s okay.”

Very rarely, when I smile at a stranger, they appear to be actively irritated, or offended. That is usually not my problem.

If they choose to, though, they can quite quickly make it my problem.

In Brigittenau, as I was looking for a bike rack, I encountered someone who wanted to do just that.

I smiled at a couple as they walked, hand in hand. I was smiling at both of them, but I locked eyes with the person who looked more like me. Years of staring at me in the mirror finally caught up with me.

Vanity, ya’ ol’ dickhead.

This person, proving themselves not to be my reflection, tossed their partner’s hand aside, and tore their fanny pack off, before throwing it hard into the tarmac.

Now, that’s inherently hilarious. I don’t care who you are. Damaging your own property, especially your own inherently hilarious property, to spite someone else? That’s big brain shit.

As I kept walking, confused and, I think, still smiling, probably even giggling, I realised I was being stared down. I had my earphones in, so I didn’t hear precisely what was being yelled at me, but it was some Austrian equivalent to “Oi! Want me to fuckin’ lay you out?”

It wasn’t clear to me what that equivalent was, but what was clear - made even more so by his repetition of the same challenge - was that my smile had been so infuriating that this person now wanted to fight me.

My genuine response, “what the fuck?”, much more confused than enraged, was uttered as I kept walking. I half expected to be followed, but I wasn’t. Just in case this isn’t already clear, I’m not a fighter. I have very little interest in getting my face socked in.

I especially didn’t want to stick around long enough for the fanny pack to be picked up and inspected, as I’m sure that responsibility for its definitely damaged contents would be placed squarely on my not so boulder-shoulders.

When I snuck a glance back, from about a block away, the prospecting pugilist was bent over picking the bag up.

I rounded the corner before I could witness the discovery of consequences for actions - because I sure as shit wasn’t going to be the one to deliver those consequences to him through physical force.

3.

I recounted this story to a colleague the following day, as we were out and about on a company mission, training a very dumb robot. Whilst wearing high-visibility orange jackets, we were training a recruit designed to render both of our jobs obsolete. I was assured, when I pointed this out to my boss, that the system wouldn’t be ready for a few years. I’m only contracted for four months of work, so that’ll be just fine for me.

“He got lucky that he tried to fight you,” said my colleague, in a comment I’m sure was intended to be insulting, but which is really just a matter of fact.

“Yeah, well I’m no fighter, so he really did.”

“I fuckin’ am,” responded my coworker.

Granted, the two of us grew up under very different circumstances. I didn’t have to fight for everything. I can only do my best to understand that when those people grow up - those who did have to scrap for every scrap, and never take any crap, have that response hard-wired into them.

“I would’ve laid him out.”

I’ve met a lot of people who talk this way. Very few actually give me reason to believe that they are going to go through with their bravado, and actually knock someone out. Seems a lot easier said than done.

“Gimme a minute, mate, I have to take a piss.”

We had stopped on the side of the road, and were eating strawberries which had been bought for my co-workers kid. Thanks to me, that child would never receive those fruity gifts, as I was busy shoving them in my mouth. After forgetting to gift the berries the day before, my colleague had no use for them.

Men, you see, don’t eat strawberries. Same way they don’t smile people. That’s gay.

I looked up and noted that we were directly beneath a public restroom sign, pointing into the park beside us. The restrooms were no more than ten metres away, and the structure housing them was no more than a few feet from one of Vienna’s excellent public playgrounds, bustling with children enjoying the last few days of summer.

I spent the next few minutes happily guarding (standing beside) our rides, munching on strawberries, basking in the sun, and allowing myself to be distracted by butterflies. Some time later, a flash of high-viz orange drew my attention to a parting of trees between the restrooms and the playground.

There was my colleague, wearing company clothing designed to draw as much attention as possible - identical to my own clothing - taking an open-air piss just a few metres away from a busy playground, in the middle of the day.

Don’t get me wrong, I love a wild wee as much as anyone.

A lot of people make a big deal out of them, and that’s a shame, because one of those people goes by the peculiar name of “the legal system”. In Austria, public urination is a violation of “decency”. In order to violate “decency”, your action has to be perceived by other people, who are not involved in the “indecent” behaviour.

Now, this is pretty stupid, because “decency” is as conceptually floppy as string “cheese” is physically. That said, in this case, those present to perceive the public urination were children - and people tend to get real tetchy about those exposing genitalia around children. Very understandably, I should add.

Definitely doesn’t seem wise to do so while wearing a “look at me” orange jacket.

I noticed this far too late, and was just hoping that nobody else had done so, when my colleague started to walk back towards me.

My hopes were dashed when a gardener, or landscaper, or park employee of some sort, came bounding up to my colleague and I. At first politely, they said, in German, “Don’t do that. That is not okay.

The tone didn’t imply escalation, though I was aware that this wasn’t a good look at all for either of us (and not just because luminous orange isn’t a flattering colour for those with our skin-tone). I didn’t think that this needed to go any further. My colleague could just accept the wrongdoing, and not do it again.

People are frustrating.

“Call the fucking police then,” was the immediate response, in English.

They were speaking different languages, but nothing was lost in translation.

I watched the park employee’s face change. They had approached politely, and instructed a grown-ass adult not to piss into the bushes three metres from a busy children’s playground - and were greeted by that grown ass adult’s obstinacy.

The park employee reached into a pocket, wordlessly, and pulled out a phone. I watched as 133 was dialled, and my eyes flickered between the two of them, as they engaged in an impromptu staring contest.

My colleague lost.

Did I mention that we look an awful lot alike, in terms of complexion, height, approximate weight, and that we were wearing the same orange vest and company helmets?

“Let’s go.” The message wasn’t really being directed at me.

We left the park, and at the exit, it was clear we would go our separate ways - but first, we stopped. I watched an orange vest get torn off, a helmet get unclipped, and both being shoved into a rucksack.

“Nice riding with ya, see ya later mate!” I could practically see a perfect dust-outline left in the air.

I stood in that wake for a moment, processing, as slow individuals such as myself tend to do, and it took longer than I’d care to admit to realise that I, with my slightly dark (beautiful) olive complexion, luminous clothing, and company attire, precisely matched the child-urinator description being given to the police at that very moment.

I hadn’t done anything wrong - unless enjoying (a child’s) strawberries while your mate pisses next to other children is a crime - but it seemed prudent to leg it. For some reason, probably shock paired with my aforementioned slowness, it didn’t occur to me that, like he had, I should have shed my incriminating clothing.

I left the district as quickly as I could, passing not one, but two police cars as I did so, while trying not to piss myself. Admittedly, soiling myself, if I had been stopped, might have worked in my favour, as evidence that I couldn’t possibly have voided my bladder twice in such a short time-frame.

Quick question for any attorneys wasting their precious time (it’s all billable) by reading this:

Would the pissy pants defence hold up in a court of law? With the right lawyer, maybe.

The tenuous ties betwixt these tales are temporal and thematic. They occurred within a very short time-frame, and all of them involved people acting like assholes, while looking just like me. My self-identity is not something which is immediately apparent to everyone, and I’m sure that theirs is not either. 

For all I know, any of the men involved here could identify as non-binary too.

That said, I take pride in self-awareness (dangerous thing to announce about oneself to the world, I realise, given that we're never able to see ourselves as completely as we may think) in a way I do not often see reflected in men. Often, this self-awareness tips over into self-consciousness, to my detriment. I have been known to be far more prepared to accept, understand and forgive the transgressions of others - even significant ones - than my own.

In each of these three cases, I saw people who could not see, let alone accept, that they were wrong to react aggressively to the world around them. In each case, their reactions were detrimental to themselves, and to those around them.

It is a feeble, self-defeating outlook, and one which is certainly not exclusive to masculinity, but is very strongly associated with it. I find the ability, the willingness, even, to admit that I’m wrong, that I don’t know what I’m doing, that I’m often quick to react poorly, to be a superpower. Or at the very least, a baseline ability allowing me to live in this world without constant conflict yielding nothing more than more conflict.

It is liberating, because I’m a human, and we’re incredibly flawed. Being able to admit that I’m wrong when I’m wrong allows me to make mistakes and learn from them, rather than having to stand by an initial reaction which is usually not measured, not thought out, and often, outright ridiculous.

I feel for those who don’t know that they can do this.

Well, not so much for the dog kicker. When it comes to dogs, they are beasties that have been moulded for tens of thousands of years of domestication to essentially become four-legged(usually) vehicles for barking empathy.

On some level on the spectrum between pure instinct and awareness, dogs have become finely attuned to human beings in a way which allows them to understand people in a way many men - those who actively quash empathetic impulses, in particular - simply can’t.

You put out a dog kicker energy, and meet a dog which doesn’t want you to kick them, or their family, and then you prove that dog right… you’re bout to get bit.

De-escalating potentially precarious situations is a valuable skillset, because wether you like it or not, we’re social beings who need one another. It is never good for the collective - which is all that we are - to have angry, volcanic, one-man islands bumbling about hoping that someone collides with them.

Or worse: smiles at them. That’s gay, dude. Now come here so I can touch you - at high enough speed for it not to be gay.

That interaction reminded me of a story another man I knew once told me, about their homosexual coworker, who complimented his sweater one fine morning.

Verbatim:

“I wanted to go home and burn the sweater,” he said, with a straight face. “Don’t fucking compliment me, dude.”

Ah yes, nothing like burning your own property to stick it to the gays.

The very same men who make others uncomfortable by subjecting them to a predatory gaze react quite poorly when even a very mild variant of that gaze is turned upon themselves.

You’re fragile. And that’s okay, we all are. Please stop making that my problem.

blog the third signing off