by Don Hall

Beyond the strange out-of-place, out-of-time feeling an older man gets when dating a woman far too young for him is the witnessing of generational dances that seem completely surreal.

She and I dated for a short time. Probably three months. Summer. She was definitely of a different stripe from women my age — she told me that when she saw me host The Moth, she looked at her friend and said, “I’m gonna fuck him. Not fall in love, not a chance, but I’m gonna fuck him.”

She was correct on both points.

At a party she held at her tiny garden apartment (she called it a party, I called it a bunch of her friends in a room drinking, getting high, and performing for one another) I noticed the weirdest ritual. 

The conversation turned to which cocktail of anti-anxiety medication they were currently taking. It became like a oneupmanship contest. 

Are they bragging about taking pills that mask their anguish? Am I out of the generational loop because I don’t take anything when I’m confronted with self doubt or fear of the unknown?

Uncharacteristically, I kept my mouth shut. I still wanted to get laid once all these performative trauma victims left for the night.

While I am a white, heterosexual male, I’ve endured my fair share of trauma. An abusive stepfather when I was six and seven years old. Sex with my fourteen year old babysitter and her friend when I was nine. Drugs and withdrawal when I was twelve at the behest of my older cousin. I made it through these events and while I am able to acknowledge them, I don’t carry them with me like anchors tied to my waist. Simply, these moments in my history do not define who I am and how I interact with the world and, if they do, I’m not going to boast about whatever crippled nature that has been created.

Recently, a nine year old Australian dwarf was made viral for crying on camera and claiming he wished to die because of bullying. Of course, money poured in, Hugh Jackman sent a video, the spectacle was on. Sure, it’s sad to see a kid bullied but this is more performance than anything else. His parents filmed him wailing with his obvious permission, put it online for all to see. How could it be anything but a dance of victim hood on display. The shuck and jive of trauma.

It would be a mistake to assume I’m an uncaring jackass when it comes to bullying. I’m against all forms of bullying from all colors of the spectrum. I only bring up the fact that the kid is a dwarf because his mother emphasizes it throughout the video. No one should be bullied just like no one should be lied to, gaslit, harassed, or have to suffer through great offense at a terrible joke or a horrific view of a large man whose pants casually slide down enough to see his hairy ass-crack as he bends down to get the case of beer from the shopping cart. This is the human race, gang. Shivering at every slight will only make you more vulnerable when the climate finally torches us and fighting for that last can of Lima beans while the zombies come for you demonstrates that the planet doesn’t care if you can’t handle it.

In today’s marketplace of ideas, performative victim status is all the rage. Blame your parents, blame the government, blame social media, blame white people, blame men, blame women. This only works if other people buy into your blame. If enough people band together and tell you are not only right to blame someone else for your troubles but that it is a badge of courage to walk around with your trauma on display 24 hours a day, why wouldn’t you?

In a bizarre perversion of the Orwell doublespeak, we embrace the idea that Weakness = Strength. Yes, weakness. An inability to overcome trauma and build it into a positive trait is a weakness. Understandable in a nine year old dwarf. Not so with grown ass adults.

What happens to the bullied kid with club feet or a cleft pallet who goes online to bemoan his fate (at the encouragement of his parents)? Does Hugh Jackman have time to post a voice of support for all of them? What about the kids that just don’t go viral? As we indulge this behavior, we create a negative sum of empathy. The more victims out there, the less we collectively give a shit.

Trauma either becomes a defining characteristic or an obstacle you overcome but never both. Those who choose to hold it dear, it becomes like a costume and a blanket to display to anyone. If no one acknowledges your trauma, did it happen?