The Trouble with the World is Me

Parents chatting outside the school gates.

Exchanges over drinks in the pub.

A pleasingly righteous read on social media.

For as long as I can remember, and possibly more so in recent years, the “… and I told them so” model of storytelling has been a popular form of anecdote. We like to put people in their place, it seems, and then to let our friends know about it.

The narrator sets the scene, emphasizing how very reasonable they are and highlighting their impeccable moral compass: “I wouldn’t have minded if [abc] – fair enough – but I draw the line at [xyz]”, before detailing the offender’s outrageous actions and the exchanges which followed, with varying degrees of conscious or unconscious embellishment. Ultimately, the listener’s range of possible responses is whittled to down to two: “Of course you had to say something, I’d have done the same!”, or “Good on you for speaking up – I wish I was that brave!”

Here's a recent example of my own, to illustrate the formula in action.

It was a warm evening, and as usual the woman over the back had been sharing her rave music with me all day. On this particular occasion I will concede – to show how reasonable I am – that she had included some nursery rhymes for her two (three? four?) small, noisy children. Interestingly, the nursery rhymes were also set to a rave beat.

I was finishing some work in my micro-office which overlooks the garden, the back door open due to the heat, when a man’s head and shoulders popped up into view. He was standing on the large trampoline which is jammed up against my garden fence, just next to the aggressive bamboo forcing its way through into my flowerbeds*. I could hear the small children, presumably also on the trampoline, interacting with him and each other as he spoke – very loudly – to someone on the phone.

“Who the fack put this fackin’ trampoline together?” he complained. “Oi, kids – who the fack built this?”

I couldn’t hear their responses, but they continued chatting away and playing, sounding happy enough. The loud, sweary conversation – at least, the half of it I could hear – continued for a couple more minutes, and my hackles started to rise. It wasn’t just indignation; I felt a sense of responsibility towards those children. It distressed me that they were being exposed to such language. Fair enough, curse words can slip out when you’re angry (again, note how reasonable I am – I’ll even admit to having done it myself), but the man wasn’t angry! There was absolutely no justification for it.

“Did a real man put this together, or was it a fackin’ pu-”

OK, enough.

“Excuse me”, I called out in a calmly assertive manner completely at odds with every aspect of my character. “Do you have to use that language? You’ve got young children with you!”

He stared at me for a moment, then slowly pointed to his ear and said, “I’m on the phone.”

“I can see that”, I replied, “but the kids are still with you. Do you need to keep swearing like that?”

He stared at me again, then turned and said, “Kids, get in the house.”

He then disappeared from sight, grumbling to whoever was on the other end of the call. Two minutes later I heard him venting to rave music woman. “So I fackin’ swore! So fackin’ what? What’s it got to do with her? Fackin’ Karen.”**

“Sorry to have caused offence”, I piped up. “I didn’t think I was being unreasonable.”

A ringing silence ensued; clearly he hadn’t realised I could still hear him. And with that, I closed the back door, my head held high.***

That’s where the story ends – and for me, it’s a hollow ending. My problem with “... and I told them so” anecdotes is that, other than a moment of savage self-satisfaction that can be entertainingly relayed to our friends, nothing has been achieved. While we might like to believe our outspoken righteous indignation will change someone’s thinking or their behaviour, how likely is this in reality? At best we’ve probably ruffled some feathers; at worst we might have shot ourselves in the foot and could be in for some unpleasant repercussions. I’ve certainly blown my chance of going round and politely asking rave music woman if she’d kindly “turn it down a bit” during working hours.

People don’t like being told what to do. They especially don’t like being told how to parent.

But when it comes to a story, we like to side with whoever holds the moral high ground. We also enjoy the confrontation and conflict. All these elements would be lost if the situation had progressed to genuine communication, a smidge of self-reflection, empathy and perhaps even resolution. We certainly need more of these things in the world, now more than ever, but they don’t grab the listener. They also involve us examining our part in the problem, which is another thing people don’t like.

So how was I in the wrong?

Well, firstly I was biased because of my own experience – which everyone is, of course. When my dad used the f-word, which he very rarely did, it was because he was angry, so hearing it in this context initiated a fear response in me which I translated as offence. Trampoline man was effing and jeffing to his heart’s content, but he wasn’t angry; neither were the children upset or frightened. It still makes me sad that they’re growing up hearing this kind of language as part of their everyday vocabulary, but that is none of my business.

My far bigger mistake was that, in my state of high dudgeon, I overlooked the most important fact: this man was fixing the kids’ trampoline. He might have had a long, tough day at work but he was out there in the heat, repairing the trampoline to make it safe for those children. When I think of this I’m filled with shame.

Luckily, nothing has been lobbed over my fence and the rave music hasn’t got louder. It’s one to chalk up to experience.

Embellishments

*I lied about the flowerbeds; my garden is a mess and I don’t have any. The bamboo is coming through into the wildflower area … except I don’t have a wildflower area either. It’s a patch of weeds.

**I fabricated the ‘Karen’ comment. (I despise myself a little for that one.)

***My head was not held high. At this point my poor system was flooded with waves of adrenaline and cortisol. After closing the door I grabbed my husband’s last can of beer from the fridge and downed it, shaking.

Additional confession

I swear like a trooper, albeit not in front of small children. Always have done.

Title quote attributed to Walter M. Miller. What a guy.