Elysha and I attended a social event recently. We found ourselves at a table with four other couples, who all knew – via our conversation – that Elysha and I are teachers. Some of them had even had children and grandchildren pass through our schools.
At one point, a man on the opposite side of the table complained that teachers no longer focus on reading, writing, and math, but instead have diverted their attention to other unnecessary subjects.
I smiled and nodded. In many circumstances, I would’ve said something in response, but this was not the kind of social event where a debate on educational policy would’ve been appropriate. Rather than disrupting a lovely evening, I decided to ignore his statement and move on.
Also, it was clear that the man was at least a little tipsy.
A couple minutes later, the same man began insulting a person who I consider a good friend. An educational leader who I respect immensely. It was interesting to watch someone insult a person, not knowing that his target’s friend was sitting directly across from him.
Again, I smiled and ignored the man. My friend would’ve recommended that I do the same, I think. It was not the time nor place for debate.
Then the man began talking about transgender issues, arguing that schools have no right to encourage small children to transition from one gender to another, and speaking about transgender people in less than kind ways.
“Oh,”I thought. “You watch Tucker Carlson and all those other know-nothing fools. You’re the victim of fear mongering. Also, you’re probably an uninformed bigot.”
Still, I remained silent. This was no place to make a scene. Besides, this intoxicated moron wasn’t going to be convinced that schools are not actively encouraging students to consider gender transitions based upon my retort.
He was, at least on this particular evening, a hopeless cause.
Then the man complained that teachers don’t work hard anymore. Instead, we only teach to the test in order in order to garner tax dollars from beleaguered taxpayers for our schools.
This was the final straw.
Not for me, oddly enough, but for Elysha.
“Teachers are working really hard,” she said in a gentle but firm tone. “I think if you visit a school, you’ll see that.”
This simple statement of fact was enough to set the man off. Perhaps it was the alcohol coursing through his bloodstream, or maybe he was itching for a fight, but I suspect that it had something to do with Elysha being a woman. Regardless of his reasoning, the man raised his voice and ire and said, “My granddaughter is coming to your school in two years. If she decides that she wants to be a boy, what are you going to call her?”
Elysha, in a calm but firm voice, said, “I’m not going to answer that question, Maybe we should change the subject.”
“No,” he shot back. “If my granddaughter wants to be a boy, what are you going to call her?”
“I’m not going to answer that question,” Elysha repeated. “We should talk about something else.”
“No,” he said again, angrier and louder. “Answer the question. What would you call her?”
Again, Elysha declined to answer.
At this point, I wanted to say something. In fact, I wanted to say many, many things, and I was already formulating possible responses.
My favorite was this:
“People who repeat stuff they hear on TV are boring and useless. You’re boring and useless. Not offensive or even stupid. Just boring and useless.”
I was also calculating what I might do if he attempted to assault me after I said something, which was very unlikely, I know, but I am in a constant state of preparation at all times.
Post traumatic stress disorder will do that to you.
“I”ll let him hit me twice before I kill him,” I decided. “Make sure everyone sees him hit me, too. Then I’ll hit him so hard that he’ll think he was hit by a truck.”
But I didn’t say or do any of this. I avoided jumping into the fray entirely because I Elysha was doing a great job, and I didn’t want to step in like some kind of savior. My wife is a badass queen who can handle idiots and bullies like this quite well. She certainly didn’t need me to intervene.
But then the man asked the question a fourth time, pointing his finger at her and raising his voice even more.
This time it was my last straw.
“My wife didn’t come here to be interrogated by you,” I said. “She’s not going to answer your question.”
At that very moment, three waiters arrived, dropping food in front of us and immediately diffusing the situation with their sudden appearance. Still, the tension at the table was high as the last plates of food were placed in front of us. In an attempt to diffuse the situation even more, one of the women at the table said, “Oh, look. We all ordered the steak.”
“Actually, I ordered the eggplant,” Elysha said.
“Figures,” said the man, thus conforming his infantile stupidity. Then he turned to the couple sitting beside him and said, “You agree with me, right? You think the President is a senile idiot. You think he’s ruining our country. Right?”
The couple nodded noncommittally.
“See,” he said. “I like theses two.”
Elysha turned and began speaking to the couple to her left. I turned to the man to the right and said, “So, how are you doing?”
“Better now,” he said.
At one point during dinner, the man’s wife leaned toward Elysha and apologized for her husband, “He gets passionate about things,” she said. “And he’s had a drink too many.”
For the record, being passionate about your bigotry doesn’t make you any less of a bigot.
To Elysha’s ever-loving credit, she actually said goodbye to the man at the end of the night, wishing him a good evening with perfect politeness.
I couldn’t do it. I spent the rest of the night with my hands above the table, bunched in fists, knowing that doing so sends subliminal messages to your opponent that you’re dangerous and ready to fight.
There’s actually science behind this.
I did nothing overt, of course Just leaned my chin on my clenched fist. Held my knife in a fist. Folded my hands above the table by placing my right fist in the palm of my left hand.
It’s not much, but I believe in utilizing every advantage that I can get.
In my upcoming book, Someday Is Today: 22 Simple, Actionable Ways to Propel Your Creative Life, I suggest that the best response to a negative person is almost always no response.
It’ll make your aggressors crazy.
Some angry fool sends you a caustic email, a biting tweet, an aggravated response to your Facebook posts, and sometimes, as was the case on this particular night, fires off a relentless verbal assault. Instead of responding, say nothing. As much as you might want to say something, say nothing. Your non-response will be an echoing, endless silence for the person attacking you. Your refusal to engage will never end in their mind. For the rest of their lives, their well-crafted vitriol will be ignored. Rendered useless.
It’s dismissive, demeaning, and insulting. Best of all, it requires no effort on your part. You get to live your life and keep making your dreams come true while your aggressor stews in a broth of anger and outrage.
It’s exactly what Elysha did that night by refusing to answer the man’s question, and the effects were immediate. The man became so belligerent and aggressive that the entire table instantly turned against him, and for the rest of the night, he pouted like an angry, little boy.
Perhaps he even felt stupid the next morning after he’d sobered up, though that is probably wishful thinking.
Elysha refused to answer the man’s stupid question, and it enraged him. Make him look like a stupid bully. Painted him as a small minded, repetitive fool.
All while refusing to engage.
Well played, badass queen.
