OT: I had a dream last night, an epiphany really, that has softened my stance concerning our one and only basher. I dreamt I was the basher. It felt like he was channeling me and I was seeing the world through his eyes. I experienced his emotions; the resentment, the anger, the confusion, and the fear of a man forced to leave his native land to seek political and economic freedom for himself and his family in America. Hardly speaking the language, he must accept jobs deemed too disgusting, or too demeaning, or too stupid by the now soft and lazy descendants of pervious immigrants (his thoughts, not mine). One day, he swears, his children will be just as soft and lazy. Maybe even more so.
He takes a job as a basher, a job that is disgusting, demeaning, and stupid in any country, and applies himself with a new found zeal. He can sense the unbridled hatred and hostility and ,yes, even the pity of the other posters. His stubbornness ignores their hatred, while his pride rejects their pity (what little pride he has left that is. His night job as a bathroom attendant in an all male bathhouse relieved him of most of it). He feels awkward, different than the other posters because he doesn’t wear fancy store bought cloths or own a toaster oven. His strange pidgin postings attract ridicule and sarcastic reprimands, but he knows it is really only fear and ignorance that is to blame.
Day after humiliating day he awakens to a cold and dreary fifth floor walk-up in a long neglected inner-city slum to make a cup of tea from a bag that was garbage two days ago. As he shuffles over to the computer he braces himself for another relentless barrage of abuse. His confidence begins to wane and doubts soon follow. Did I do the right thing by escaping from Canada? Maybe I should have kept that job as goalie for the Toronto Maple Leafs? Maybe those paint chips I ate did affect my brain? What if? What if?...Soon he if typing his first bash of the day. The same old crap his boss scripted for him since day one. He wants to ask for a new script, but he is afraid of how the boss will react. He is sure he can’t come up with anything original, the paint chips took care of that. With a shrug, he resigns himself to the task at hand. When he hits “enter” he knows the feeding frenzy will begin again. But that’s his job. HIS Job! He daydreams about something Dr. Phil said, “Why do you need the newest cell phone? Are you a spoiled brat?”, but doesn’t understand what it means or how it in anyway relates to his pathetic life. He contemplates ending it all, but is certain it will hurt a lot and possibly leave a mark. He looks to the wall outlet and recalls his frightening experiences with a bobby pin. Then he remembers the gun...
I woke up at that point so I don’t know if he shot himself or not, but I do know I have compassion for him now. If I can change maybe others will find the strength to change also.
AI
