Ugly

The weight of what we call each other.

“Ugly,” he said. “You’re being ugly.”

Not again, I thought. Another judgment.

But I had to consider it. Did I insult him? No. Lose my temper? I don’t believe so. I got excitable. I raised my voice. I cared. Maybe that was the problem.

I was angry, but not at him. I was angry at the state of this country—at the damaging decisions of people in power, and the poor decisions that put those people there. This is what we were talking about. It is legitimately angering.

And I was frustrated, yes—frustrated that he kept interrupting me, kept rolling over what I was saying. I had reasons for raising my voice.

But my reasons weren’t relevant. His conclusion was preloaded.

I’ve been here before. I know how this goes.

The chill

I should be used to it by now.

I’ve been called every name in the book—sometimes in the heat of an argument, sometimes in passing, sometimes by people I loved. When I knew the names weren’t true, I carried doubt anyway. When I heard the names enough, the doubt dissipated. The lab…