Conflict Resolution
Conflict Resolution
We parents like to wax poetic about how we didn’t truly understand the scope, the magnitude, the depths and intensities of love before we had children. We talk about it the way teenage boys talk about Hendrix after they hear Little Wing for the first time, and then we proselytize about our unbound love with all the devotion of a Jehovah’s Witness. But when it comes to parenting, fewer people talk about the rage.
I don’t mean the frustration and exasperation that comes from saying things you never imagined you would have to say, like, “Stop wiping your penis on the frickin’ credenza,” or “Lipstick is not a lollipop,” or “I don’t know what to tell you, but Santa Claus is also impacted by this economy, so you better get your shit together if you hope to make good this Christmas.” No, I’m talking about the fury, the violent impulses, the concentrated disdain you feel for your fellow man in certain scenarios.
Sure, we can all agree that massacres and war crimes (or really just wars in general) are unacceptable affronts to humanity and fundamental failures of human decency, creativity, and imagination. But even as I write these words, there’s a little voice in my lingering reptilian brain that says, “Maybe that guy said something shitty about the warlord’s daughter…?” Because when someone targets my kid, my allegiance to the peacemakers—the Dr. Kings, the Gandhis, the Thích Nhất Hạnhs—falters, and I find myself appreciating the practical uses of napalm or a good old-fashioned kick to the nuts.
Last week, while fires raged around my house and I stayed behind to protect it as my family evacuated, life continued. Specifically, my daughter continued to play varsity volleyball. My wife and father-in-law texted me video highlights and score updates, which went a long way in quelling the anxieties that came with an apocalyptic wildfire. That is, until my wife called. Apparently, some boys sitting in the bleachers from the opposing school were shouting at my daughter every time she approached the net to block or to hit.
What were they shouting? The name of a boy she dated a year ago. I think it was a boy. It may have been a goblin. Maybe a sentient piece of shit. Hard to say. Our daughter was young. She made a mistake. Anyhow, the shouts were an attempt to get in her head.
My wife didn’t hear it at first, but my daughter communicated what was happening when she rotated out of the game. It was the sort of cheap, unimaginative taunting you’d expect at a political rally or a union dockworkers’ charity talent show. My wife and I were already two exposed nerves due to the fires, and this nonsense had us ready to take a blow torch to the testicles of each one of those kids.
My daughter rotated back in the game, got a beautiful set, took a big swing, and killed the ball for a point. Then she pivoted toward the boys in the bleachers and shouted, “Fuck you!” before joining her teammates in the huddle, where they dapped her up. I could write you a list of my all-time favorite spoken words—my wife’s wedding vows, Chick Hearns’ many pronouncements that the “Lakers win the championship!”, anytime someone has said, “Today’s meeting has been cancelled,” etc.—but these two words—”Fuck you!”—in this context—they’re somewhere near the top of the list.
Even so, it’s disconcerting when your 16-year-old daughter is publicly heckled by a group of teenage boys. Also, “group” is not the correct word. What’s the collective noun for that particular species? A hormonal chaos of teenage boys? A pubescent nightmare of teenage boys? A wobbly scrotum of teenage boys? Note to self: submit “a wobbly scrotum” to the OED for inclusion in the collective noun lexicon.
My daughter’s team won in 3, and the boys in the bleachers left before the game finished. Apparently, it’s not much fun heckling when your team is being utterly dismantled and demoralized. As much as the win eased our rage, we remained perplexed. The turd special my daughter had dated didn’t even go to this school, so it seems as if someone had put these boys up to it from afar, a remote sort of social terrorism.
^^^A brief highlight of my daughter and the block party she hosted in the face of intimidation.
It felt far less remote at the next game—an away match at the high school of the cretin she’d dated. Same deal. A wobbly scrotum of teenage boys heckled my daughter, shouting the boy’s name, which—hand to god—sounds strikingly similar to No Shit-Head. And No Shit-Head happened to be at this game, so it seemed likely that he had a tentacle in this bullshit.
My daughter handled it with elegance and poise. She didn’t fire off any “Fuck yous!” but she did rack up an impressive tally of blocks and kills, not once giving into their silly taunts, even when they stormed down from the bleachers and onto the court, yelling at her from the sidelines.
Unfortunately, my daughter’s team dropped this game, losing in 4, but she played exceptionally well. Concerned that some members of the wobbly scrotum might accost her after the game, I waited for her to come out of the locker room, my hands shoved purposely into my pockets as a reminder to myself that it’s generally not a good idea to wrap my hand around the throat of a teenage boy, even if he has it coming.
My daughter seemed wholly unaffected. She came out of the locker room grinning. “I’ve got fans,” she said.
My wife was traveling at work for this second game, so she got similar text updates that I got in the game previous. Two games of heckling and my wife was ready to escalate the situation. “This has to stop,” she said.
“I agree,” I said. “I’ll start digging holes and sharpening the ax.”
“I’m thinking we write a letter to his parents.”
“Yeah, that’s what I meant.”
For some reason, probably because of some experiences I had when I was young, my go-to reaction to stress or perceived threats often involves violent fantasies and momentary flights of fancy that might be categorized as evil, wicked, or morally dubious. I’ve been working on striking a more peaceful demeanor, one not so easily provoked.
So this letter idea was a win-win. First, I’m not so bad with a pen in my hand, and second, I could use some practice in de-escalation. What follows is my drafting process along with some poignant editing suggestions by my loving wife.
I wanted a strong opening, something that would define the serious nature of the situation.
Hey, motherfuckers!
“Um…I like it,” my wife said. “But maybe we don’t need to be that aggressive?”
“Okay, I can pull back,” I said.
Dear, motherfuckers!
“Definitely an improvement…”
“But?”
“Well—”
“I used ‘Dear.’
“Yeah, I see that.”
“I reserve that for, like, you, my mom, and any hypothetical correspondence with Dolly Parton. These motherfuckers should be honored they got a ‘Dear’ from me.”
“The ‘Dear’ is great. But maybe don’t accuse them of being pornographically incestuous?”
“How else did they produce that shit bird kid?”
“I hear you, but we don’t want them to get defensive, at least not right away.”
Nikki and Ronnie, *Note: not their real names.
We hope this finds you well.
“Really?” my wife said. “You want to start like that?”
“For sure. It’s passive aggressive. Anyone who writes, ‘I hope this finds you well’ either doesn’t mean it or they regard you with complete disrespect.”
“Keep it.”
Nikki and Ronnie,
We hope this finds you well. It’s been a good long while since our paths have crossed, unfortunately not nearly long enough.
“No good?”
“Maybe you should just lay out what happened before you fire off the insults.”
“A little exposition couldn’t hurt, I suppose.”
Nikki and Ronnie,
We hope this finds you well. Since we last saw you, life has been abundant. For us and for you. Most notably, our daughter has grown even more lovely and independent. Meanwhile your demon seed seems to have reached maturity. Congrats! We know as much because he has found a wobbly scrotum of suckers to do his bidding—
“Wait,” I said.
“What?” my wife said. “I have some notes, but this is headed in the right direction.”
“I agree, but we should gut check ourselves. Are we sure there is nothing Charlee has done to provoke these morons?”
“I’m pretty sure.”
“Me too, but what if?”
“What if what?”
“What if we are the ‘Dear Motherfuckers’?”
So we called Charlee into the room. “Tell us the truth—is there anything you can think of, anything you did, however insignificant, to provoke these boys?”
She thought about it for a moment, and then she said, “The first time they yelled at me, I screamed ‘Fuck you’ at them after I dropped a point on that team’s head.”
“Yes, and they deserved it, but was there anything else?”
“Nope.”
“Are you sure?”
“Positive. Those guys don’t even cross my mind.” We shared the draft of our letter with her. “I like ‘Dear, Motherfuckers!” she said.
I offered my wife my best I-told-you-so look.
“But, wait,” Charlee said. “I don’t want them to actually think they bothered me.”
“You weren’t bothered by them heckling you?”
She shook her head. “Are you kidding? I played awesome.”
“You did. You absolutely did.”
“Maybe instead of a letter to his parents,” Charlee suggested, “send all the boys an invitation to the next game and tell them to try harder.” And then she went back to her room to do homework.
My wife and I exchanged looks, a balance of heartbreak and pride. Heartbreak for the fact that our little girl needs us less and less every day, pride for the fact that our young woman has bigger balls than a whole wobbly scrotum of teenage boys.
Submit “wobbly scrotum” to the OED. Seriously, you need to get in on this. It’s time to contribute meaningfully to culture and the English language. It’ll take a group effort. Be part of something important.
If you smiled, laughed, chortled, snickered, LOL’d, ho-ho-ho’d, bahahahahaha’d, chuckled, busted a gut, or experienced any amount of joy, then please pay it forward. It’ll make you feel good. It’ll make others feel good. It’ll make me feel good. And really, isn’t that the kind of person you want to be?
Feeling conversational? Yeah, me too. A few questions for the real ones:
What’s something you’ve had to say—to a kid, a parent, a friend, an enemy—that you never thought you’d have to say?
What’s the closest you’ve come to full medieval rage?
When did you give it right back to somebody who was asking for it?
I’m proud of “wobbly scrotum,” but I’m not married to it. If you have any other suggestions…
Charlee is one badass human. She can squelch the life out of a wobbly scrotum without even flinching a muscle.
I was a pretty young lady back in the day touring Germany by myself getting tired of all the attention I drew from single men. I was in a church when some guy approached me and said something to me in German. I said, “Do you speak English?” (although I was fluent in German). He looked at me hopefully and said yes! I said very loudly-FUCK OFF! I felt so much better.