I mentioned before that my maternal monster is an unabashed racist.
I've also mentioned that she can't keep her mouth shut.
Combine the two, and you have an unpleasant situation. Add in my temper, and KA-BOOM!
I suspect that being discouraged/prevented from showing emotion growing up has something to do with my inflammability; at some point, I get sick of holding everything in, and the pot boils over.
Cue the second game of the MLB National League wild card series, the Phillies vs. the Atlanta Braves. Now, I love baseball. I love the strategy, the athleticism, and the skill. (I do NOT love the MLB's response to DV among its players, but that's another post.)
My monster was watching with me. She must have been bored, because she yaps a lot more when she's bored—it's a way to divert attention to herself. In this case, the on-deck player was the Braves slugger Michael Harris II. Mr. Harris is Black. My monster snorts derisively and says, "Well, now, THERE'S a good Scotsman." (Harris being traditionally a Scottish surname.)
This wasn't the first time she'd said it. I turned to her and replied, "What do you mean by that?"
She made another derisive snort and said that last names don't mean anything any more.
"Because he's Black?" I asked.
"Well, of course!" she said. "People can just pick whatever name they want these days!"
Never mind that many Black slaves in America were automatically given their owner's last name. I tell her that. She continues to argue.
I can't stand it anymore; I get out of my chair and head for the kitchen to get some water. My monster, never one to back away from a situation in which she can make herself the victim, follows me.
"What, you don't agree?" she taunts.
My self-control, already strained to the last fiber, breaks.
"Stop being a fucking racist cunt," I snap. "Just stop it."
Cue my monster's insta-victim mode. In a spectacular display of DARVO (Deny, Accuse, Reverse Victim and Offender), she starts accusing me of being racist to HER.
By then I had my water and was retreating to my room. She continues to play victim and screech that she can say what she wants in her own house.
I reply that she can, but I don't have to listen to it. She continues to screech. I tell her to fuck off, and slam and lock my bedroom door.
Regrets? None. Except for losing my temper. I hate that she can needle me so easily. But day-amnnnnn, did it feel good to tell her off.
The next morning, all is normal between us. She doesn't say a word about what happened, and neither do I.
Then I made a decision. Once she starts in on her racist, xenophobic, homophobic, bigoted comments, I will leave the room. Yes, she can say anything she wants, and most of it is horrible (because she's a horrible person).
I refuse to entertain it. She can squawk to the TV by herself, and I can watch movies on my laptop without interruption or nastiness.
So shall it be.
(I'll tell you how that works out for me later.)
Until next time,
Liz