Still dressed up: Greeting unknown humans with stubborn positivity

I was waiting my turn at the check-in desk at the chiropractor’s office on Samhain (that’s the day after Halloween for non-Pagans). I can’t see much with my funky eyes, so I don’t know precisely how it happened—whether the receptionist glanced at me or what—but the person ahead of me turned around, looked me up and down in an exaggerated way that even I could see, did a dramatic physical double-take and declared in a negative tone, “Watch out! She’s still dressed up!”

I was a bit taken aback and befuddled, so all I managed was to mumble, “I’m not actually dressed up.” The lady turned back around and ignored me, finished her business and left.

Image via Pixabay - Image of a woman’s face covered with colorful paint

When I shared this experience, a lot of my friends expressed shock and outrage or said I should have made a witty comeback. I wish I was that quick on my feet and I could think of several afterwards, ranging from, “Well, at least my costume doesn’t impede my ability to be polite!” to “I’m so glad you noticed!” with a little faux preening. But unfortunately, past social trauma makes me go into deer-in-the-headlights freeze mode when things like this happen out of the blue.

So, my witty comebacks are usually all for naught. And the truth is I wasn’t that upset about the comment itself. Afterwards, I could certainly see the argument of several friends that it is never okay to randomly comment on a stranger’s appearance. That really is social skills 101.

But I can’t help pondering more deeply. I was clean and had street clothes on. I was wearing a head scarf of no particular cultural background. I wear them as a personal reminder of oaths to my gods, so it is a bit of a religious head covering, but frankly, I also wear it because I have bald spots that often show, despite having long hair.

I was also wearing a colorful tunic and a long black sweater over it that could have been mistaken for a very vague imitation of something out of Harry Potter. And of course, I was carrying a white cane.

So, more than a witty response, I wish I’d asked, “What part makes you think it’s a costume? Really. Just curious.”

Was it the colorful headscarf and shirt which only sort of matched because they used the same color combination but in different patterns? Was it the black leggings and sweater? Or was it the white cane?

I did see a meme about a pilot dressing up as a blind person, using a white cane as he boarded the plane and entered the cockpit in front of passengers. I’ve got to say that I hope that wasn’t why she thought I was in costume, because that’s not okay. If dressing up as Pocahontas isn’t okay, then dressing up as a blind person isn’t either. The same type of disrespect is involved.

If it was either of the other two or a combination… Well, I guess that would imply a bit of small-town thinking on the part of my fellow sufferer of back pain. But I expect my getup would not have generated much comment in a larger city, even if manners didn’t censor most people’s impulses. I have certainly dressed in more flamboyant things and rarely get a comment.

Maybe that’s just because my outfits are considered so outlandish that it’s awkward to mention it. And really, since I’m not applying for a job, that’s okay. I try to tone it down a little when I go to advocate for my child’s special education needs, but otherwise those who dislike my free-spirited, definitely-not-up-to-date fashion sense too intensely are welcome to weed themselves out of my overly chaotic life.

The truth is I’m just tired of trying to please people all the time, especially when it appears to have no effect on anything. I know that I have some disadvantages in social stuff by being visually impaired. I can’t make eye contact. I can’t recognize people. I can’t smile and wave at acquaintances.

That all creates a lot of awkwardness, some hard feelings and misunderstandings at times and so forth. But I make sure to tell people this. And I smile a lot. I devote a lot of time and attention to making sure sighted people will feel comfortable with my expression and hedging my bets on whether or not I know them, as well as when and how to ask them to let me know who they are in a sensitive way.

An unflattering selfie of me to show what I was really wearing at the chiropractor’s office

But mostly I just try to be friendly and positive. With all the bureaucratic, medical and special education stuff my kids and I have been dealing with I have to see and interact with a wide variety of people every day, many of them strangers and many of them acquaintances who have seen me a few times. I smile and do small talk when appropriate. I I give complements whenever I can find a way that isn’t awkward. I may be frustrated with their whole bureaucracy, but I still smile and compliment the person in front of me.

And yet, the responses I get from people are so often negative. There are a few exceptions, but they aren’t friends. They’re just people who are polite and friendly back at me. And they are definitely a small minority, one in ten or so.

Some days I do worry that this is all because of me. Is the negativity of my circumstances so intense, that no matter how much positivity I put out, it hangs on me like a stench? Are my clothing or grooming choices truly just beyond the pale? Are my eyes and lack of eye contact so disconcerting that most people can’t get past it, despite gentle reminders that I’m not doing it on purpose?

All that wondering leads to a lot of anxiety and self-doubt. But I remind myself daily that it also leads to naval gazing and self-focus. The truth is that people are mostly wrapped up in their own troubles and likely not paying that much attention to me (or anyone else).

But that leads me to the final option for why I run into so much negativity on a daily basis. If it isn’t me but I’m still encountering negativity constantly, then it’s just out there and everyone is suffering from it. That may be a psychologically healthier way to look at it, but it’s also way more disturbing.

With the crises of climate change, war and so much trouble in the world, I could wish the negativity was due to something simple like my fashion choices. If it is true that the world is just full of so much resentment and isolation that everyone is experiencing what I’m experiencing from others, we’re in bigger trouble than I ever imagined as a young activist for positive changes in the world.

How do we stand a chance at ending wars or reversing environmental destruction, if friends rarely meet in person, people don’t form new friendships beyond school, people look at strangers with judgement and resentment first and a circle of trusted friends or family is a rare luxury that few experience?

I fear that this is the real reason for the social isolation I experience and for much of the big troubles of our world. As much as I was frustrated with older people who said things like this when I was a young activist, because I wanted big changes first. I see now that we will never manage any lasting or worthwhile big changes until people make changes in their spirit and how the relate in community.

I can tell you from the experience of someone who could never see other people’s faces so the world is eternally full of probable strangers, that it is hard to keep smiling kindly, keep greeting people with generosity, keep open the belief that the next vague unknown form you meet may be a dear friend. It’s hard but necessary. When sighted people—when enough of everyone—starts greeting the world the way well-adjusted blind people greet the world, maybe, just maybe, we’ll have a chance of solving some big problems.

Short story: Stars for Stacy

I ask you to imagine a slightly different world. Not so different really.

Remember that ninety percent of human communication does not involve words, spoken or written. It is about tone of voice, facial expressions, body language and eye contact. We say a great many things without words, often even without realizing it. It isn’t an extra. It is the mainline of communication, the mainstream.

But in the world of this story, things are a bit different. Here ninety percent of human communication is telepathic. That’s all. People still speak and have facial expressions but perhaps they have developed to speak a bit less than we do. And the important communications—the things that truly matter—are passed directly from mind to mind.

In all other ways, this world is the same as ours. And as such, human bodies are fallible and changeable and diverse. The same diseases and injuries that affect us still exist in this telepathic world. Maybe it is a little less important if a person is blind or deaf because communication can go directly from mind to mind. Such disabilities still exist, but they become little more than a nuisance, like colorblindness or lack of the sense of smell is for people in our world.

The disease that people fear in this world, the dreaded debilitation that strikes some unlucky children, people with head injuries and the very old is called “mind blindness.” People donate teddy bears to mind-blind children, pity their parents and try not to think too hard about it.

These disabled people cannot communicate telepathically. Either fully or partially they cannot perceive or send such communication. And in a world of telepaths, this is a terrible condition.

But progress comes eventually. With technology and modernity there are steps toward acceptance. Those who were once kept hidden away in institutions are integrated… somewhat. Good-hearted people want to include and help them. The parents in the small town of Marten are even glad when the school integrates a smart mind-blind girl into a mainstream classroom.

Creative Commons image by Eric Wüstenhagen

Her name is Stacy. Stacy has wildly curly hair, a big smile and strangely disconnected-looking eyes. She doesn’t look at you when you greet her. You have to speak out loud. You have to be almost rudely explicit about everything with her. It takes extra effort and at first the teacher is reluctant to have this extra burden in her class.

But Stacy has a blocky little computer on her desk, something developed to be functional rather than handsome, to help the unfortunate who chronically have very little money. The computer roughly translates the stream of the teacher’s thoughts into words. It’s one big run-on sentence that often makes little sense. All the nuance and feeling is taken out, but she can basically understand what the teacher is trying to get across in class.

Stacy can’t perceive the comments and questions of other students with it though. The teacher wears a special receiver. It is so much better than nothing. Stacy is so happy to have it. Up until last year she was almost entirely cut off from the telepathic world and she had to go to a special school where slow-speaking teachers taught out loud and while everything was cheery, there was an underlying assumption that these children would always be disabled. The best they could hope for was “independent living skills.”

And Stacy is bright. Her teachers saw that and many people believe that with the right conditions and accommodations, she could achieve anything she sets her mind too. She is an excellent student after all, when the content is something she can hear or read.

Stacy has a special teacher too for after school. This special teacher tries to teach her coping skills, ways to get around her mind-blindness. She teachers Stacy how to read signs and cues from the bodies of others. She teaches Stacy to be extra kind and helpful to others, so that they will know that her mind-silence is not meant to be dismissive and cold, as it generally appears to others. Stacy works hard and earns stars on a chart for each milestone.

Because she’s a smiler and she tries so hard to please, some of the kids in her class invite her to go out with them. At first, it’s a thrill. They have the strange girl with them. They are curious about communication through words and gestures. Some kids like the feeling of approval from adults who are glad to see them include the disabled girl.

But it does take extra effort. And the kids find that the novelty wears off. After a while the effort of including her in communication gets old. Most stop inviting her. Sure, she smiles. Maybe a little too much, in fact. You have to say things so explicitly. She almost never gets the jokes. They don’t mean to be mean but…

There are a few who fiercely continue to invite Stacy along on group outings. She can dance so well. It’s almost as if she is saying something with the way she moves her body. But the truth is that when they have to choose a best friend to go on vacation with or someone to do a big school project with, it isn’t Stacy. She’s a friend, but not a best friend.

Sometimes Stacy does find a best friend, someone who she connects with. These are often troubled kids, teens who have been through abuse or who are shunned by the others. They don’t really want to share their every thought. They appreciate that she isn’t nosy and her out-loud chatter is a welcome distraction. But having friends who are outcasts has its own consequences.

When Stacy graduates from high school, she gets scholarships. She is still a very good student. With accommodations, she learns quickly and gobbles up knowledge. She is full of hope in those years and people point her out to their acquaintances as an “inspiration.”

“Don’t complain,” their thoughts flit from one to another as she walks by. “Think how hard it must be. If she can do it, you certainly can. She’s so brave!”

But when her fellow students have to choose partners, they still don’t choose her. Brave is one thing. The amount of work it would take to do the project with her is another.

When college is done they also don’t hire her in their companies. Brave is one thing. But every business needs networking and the human touch. She isn’t much good at interpersonal communication in this world.

Stacy wants to be a scientist and her research papers in graduate school were ground-breaking. But after she gets her degree, she can’t get a job in science. You have to meet people at conferences. And initial meetings are all about subtle telepathy. Stacy’s smile and outstretched hand ready to shake are clumsy and… well… just off.

A few of her professors, deeply impressed by her scientific work, make introductions. And that seems to work for awhile. Stacy gets a prestigious internship and finally an entry level job in her field. The sky seems like the limit and Stacy believes she can do it. She doesn’t mind that it is harder for her. She is focused on the positivity instilled in her by all those little stars she earned.

But staff reviews aren’t great even in the beginning and they go down hill. “She doesn’t greet colleagues… She is cold and aloof... She isn’t interested in working with others…” The same phrases come up a lot. Stacy remembers her special teacher and she goes out of her way to be helpful and kind to others. Some start to call her “cloying.”

She loses her job over misunderstandings and it has been a few years since she was in grad school. The old connections are lost and new ones come very hard, when she can’t do the networking circuit. She gets a few gigs doing science writing. They don’t pay much and slowly she becomes obsolete in the field. Failure stings.

She knows she was given all the opportunities, more in fact than others. She was given scholarships, special teachers and second chances. Her teachers were right. She just didn’t learn their lessens well enough.

She rents a place out of town, away from other people. It is easier if people aren’t around all the time. It takes so much energy to explain at every turn why she doesn’t do telepathy. It is exhausting to go through the social strategies she has learned to smooth it over. She turns to art made with natural materials that she gives to an old lady to sell at local fairs. This and her Social Security disability check makes a bare income.

Her art is beautiful and sometimes makes people go misty eyed. No one really points her out as an inspiration anymore though. Her smile has faded and she usually looks glum. She also talks to plants and her several cats.

Her brother and sister come to visit her with their families on occasion, but their spouses don’t really understand about her. They see her as eccentric, old before her time and not a very positive example for their children. They sit around her table as she stays mostly in the kitchen preparing food.

She loves the moment of attention and social connection she gets when she brings the food out. They’ll ooh and aah and make an effort to speak out loud for a moment. And that sends her scurrying back to make them more food. But no one thinks of her much beyond that.

One evening during such a visit, Stacy is tired from a long afternoon of cooking and she sits down at the side of the table, her fingers caressing the smooth wood of the old family dinner table. She half-listens to the conversation, the parts of it that are audible and she watches faces for the clues about what is going on under the surface.

Her sister-in-law’s face flickers and she breaks into a smile. Everyone all around the table laughs, except Stacy. She doesn’t know what the joke is as usual.

Usually, she just lets it go but sometimes she asks. And now the atmosphere seems relaxed enough, so she ventures timidly. They don’t hear her at first. The conversation is going on at the other end of the table, fast back and forth. When they do finally hear Stacy, it is jarring.

She’s interrupting. She has no sense for proper interjecting. She’s just so rude. That’s what most of them think. The way Stacy butts in shows how she isn’t even paying attention and then she wants them to pay attention to her.

Her sister who is closest to her in age does understand a bit. She knows Stacy tries and that she’s a lot more sensitive and kind than people think. She stops the raucous conversation and asks Stacy what she wanted. Stacy carefully explains.

They have to backtrack in the conversation. Her brother tries to explain the joke with words. It was a non-verbal thing though. It isn’t easy. His wife and his brother-in-law are clearly bored.

Stacy thanks them and smiles. Then she ventures to ask, “Could you speak out loud a bit more tonight.. I feel like I’ve hardly seen you this visit.”

The irritated sister-in-law turns to the others and projects the sentiment that Stacy is a bore and not very much fun. To Stacy she says, “Dear, you really should try some of these positive thinking affirmations. You know, if you could just be more like that famous actor who is mind-blind. You know. He is so gracious and such an inspiration.”

This isn’t the first time, Stacy has heard this. In fact, she’s heard this many thousands of times. And this isn’t the first exhausting conversation she has sat on the edge of while being thought to be pushy and demanding.

This probably isn’t the time when Stacy makes an outburst or cries or yells or demands to be treated like an equal. That only happens once in about a thousand similar situations. And Stacy feels guilty for those outbursts. She knows mind-blind people from her old special school for the disabled who never make a demand or an outburst. They sit quietly in their family home and make handicrafts. They make no demands. No one says they're an inspiration but neither do they blame them.

When her family goes back to their homes and leaves Stacy alone again, she is relieved. She doesn’t really like to be alone, but the truth is that it is easier than the constant struggle. And anything is preferable to those comments that tear her up inside.

Very few people in Stacy’s world ever think about a world like ours, a world where everyone is like Stacy. And if they do think it, it is just idle curiosity. What would it be like, if no one used telepathy, if all we had were five senses?

The truth is that Stacy’s world is not so far away. The sense Stacy lacks that everyone else has is no different from hearing or sight. It is one thing. She gets around without it just fine. She can do schoolwork, science, cook, be a full person in every way. She can be a great friend too. But because society is not made for people like her, her career fails and she ends up isolated.

I know dozens of Stacies all over the world. They just happen to be bright and competent and awesome and physically blind. And we live in the world we live in and most of human communication is visual. Blindness is the condition people subconsciously dread in our world. But they dread it for the wrong reasons. Physically not seeing things is a nuisance, for sure. But that’s not what leads to the isolation and despair.

Inclusion takes effort and the fact is that most people just don’t want to think too much about it.

Gratitude lessons

Seven fifteen on a Monday morning.

I’ve managed to get the kids up and dressed. I didn’t manage to do my meditation before dawn. It was another interrupted night, but I’m at least half awake.

My fourth-grade daughter is eating her cereal when she cocks her head, frowns and declares, “I forgot about some homework for today. I have to find out about the Age of Gold and tell about it in class.”

We don’t live in one of those kind, gentle school systems with lots of second chances. There are cumulative consequences and my daughter is already struggling. She cares a little but not much, and her multiple learning disabilities make it easy for her to forget. This time she asks for help… nicely for a change.

The kids’ encyclopedias are missing from their places and both claim no knowledge of their whereabouts. I rush to start the computer. She has to leave by 7:30 to get to school in time. And the research info has to be in Czech.

Wait… “The Age of Gold?” I didn’t know there was one.

I do a quick Google search and find dozens of advertisements for gold jewelry, endless gratuitous references to something being “the golden age of …. whatever” and nothing on a historical “Age of Gold.”

“MOM! I’m going to be late!” my daughter’s voice isn’t nice any more.

Creative Commons image by Liz West

I try another type of search. I am sure by now that no one refers to an “Age of Gold” in English histories, but that doesn’t mean the Czechs don’t have one. It could have been the era when royalty in the valley of Bohemia got a bunch of gold for one of those ridiculous crowns that make you pity young medieval kings—for all I know.

“Stupid idiot!” My daughter curses her younger brother in a loud hiss from the hallway, “Get out of the chair! I want to sit there!” There is only one chair for putting on shoes in our tiny hallway.

He shrieks in pain. It’s the standard thing that happens if I’m not there to physically separate them while they get there coats and shoes before school.

And I come unglued.

I tried to help her because she did ask nicely and the consequences of completely blowing off the assignment will be harsh. There are no accommodations for kids with learning disabilities. But I make a massive effort to teach my kids both responsibility and kindness.

My daughter regularly has to do “do-overs”. to speak nicely or do push-ups and squats for hitting and pushing or do “time out” for total freak-outs. She gets the consequences of poor grades regularly and we talk about cause and effect while tucking the kids into bed.

It isn’t the forgotten (or possibly blown off) homework that really gets me. It isn’t even the constant hitting, pushing and general meanness, it is the utter lack of awareness that someone is doing something FOR her. I’ll admit that I’m oversensitive to this at the moment because I find it to be a chronic deficit among the adults in my vicinity as well.

In the environmental organization where I volunteer, we had a crisis a couple of months ago We had several major actions set up but no one willing to volunteer to guide journalists around the site and answer questions. I would have done it myself, except it all had to be done in a language I speak with an accent (and occasionally creative grammar). No one wanted me in that role—least of all me—so I went looking for volunteers with the promise of my presence and support.

Finally, I found a petite young mother who wasn’t in a position to do the major organizing roles or to do direct action—given that she had a toddler in tow—but she was passionate and wanted a volunteer job. So, with a crash course in media relations she went into action. For two months she threw herself into the task. Finally, we had the media issue covered.

But then a competent professional came along. As a journalist, I’ll be the first to admit that he knows his stuff and he’ll likely do a great job. But there was one small problem. He didn’t thank the young woman, who had set everything up for him and held down the fort through those first rugged months. The organizers didn’t thank her for saving our bacon back in August. She was overstepped by the professional and dismissed.

I also worked as a full-time volunteer for two months last summer. I had some time off of work and time when my kids were with their grandmother. Instead of taking that time to write a new book or study medicinal herbs, I threw myself into the struggle for climate justice because it is the burning issue of our times and self-respect demands it of me..

I didn’t go into it because I wanted to be thanked or even appreciated, anymore than the impromptu press spokeswoman did. But I will admit that the respect I felt from other activists for the work I did was a major source of my intense physical and mental energy in those months. It was a much needed boost.

Through the summer, I welcomed, nurtured and trained hundreds of new volunteers. And I have been thanked at times, and once the people in my closest team commissioned a chocolate cake with my name on it when I stepped down as coordinator to give someone else a shot at the role. Thanks isn’t why you do it, but it matters.

As I breathe in the crisp air of late autumn in my withered garden, I discover something unexpected to be thankful for. The power dynamics I witnessed as an activist this time around have given me an unforeseen gift—just the plot twist I needed for a novel outline I’d been stuck with for more than a year now.

I come in with my cheeks burning from the cold, get some tea and head to my writing corner. While last year my writing muscles were exhausted and I could barely get through these blogs, let alone start on another book, I’m ready. Really ready.

That is something to be thankful for.

I am, of course, thankful for the tree just outside my door. I’m thankful for my husband, imperfect as he is who none-the-less means I’m not doing it all alone. I’m thankful that, after long struggle, our children are home. I’m thankful for mostly functional technology that makes the life of a mostly blind person much easier than it otherwise would be. I’m thankful for the literal fruits of my garden, my animals and this first blast of cold winter wind. I’m thankful for the warmth from my radiator and other small luxuries, for the very fact that I can write and my words do not stay silent in a box.

Gratitude is the most necessary element of relationship, even when it is the mere acknowledgement of a helpful presence or a mundane task done well for others. Gratitude is likely at least part of the key that we are missing in our disconnected world.

I am not a vegetarian for health reasons. But I am mindful in the way I eat and live. My thanks goes out to the animals and plants that I need to eat in order to live. And I wonder how the global crisis of meat production might be altered if everyone would take a moment to thank each animal consumed. It isn’t that often or that much for most of us. Many cultures used to do it and that one thing alone, might make all the difference.

P.S. There isn’t an “Age of Gold” even in Czech. She meant the “Age of Bronze”. or the Bronze Age but got her metals mixed up. Another frantic search in which the only purpose was caring for a child as best I can.

Jokes that hurt without meaning to

This post is not about racists, homophobes, ableists, sexists and other recognized deplorables telling deplorable jokes that we can all agree are damaging and not funny.

Sorry. It’s been done. Here are some links (on people who get mad that women don’t fake laugh at sexist jokes anymore. and how bigoted jokes change who it is socially acceptable to hate), if you need a post about that. It is also a real issue.

This is the “dig a little deeper” post.

We—and here I mean progressive, kind, good-hearted people who don’t want to hurt anyone—need to think about what happens when we accidentally or carelessly tell a joke that hurts someone.

There’s a Facebook meme that says, “If I ever confuse ‘their’ versus ‘there’ and ‘its’ versus ‘it’s’ in the same post, you should take it as a sign that I have been kidnapped and I’m signaling for help.”

I’m a linguist, a grammar buff and an ESL teacher. I get why this is funny.

Those who know and care about the differences in words and who feel that the integrity of language matters get frustrated with the apparent lackadaisical attitude of many on social media toward the written word.

To many of us, sloppy spelling and grammar is the equivalent of going out in public with your fly down, food on your chin, morning breath, body odor and your hair not brushed for three days. It reflects poorly on the person posting a message and discredits what they have to say.

Meanwhile, to many people on social media, typing is simply a different way of talking and the faster it’s done the better.

The joke is funny because:

1. The person who posts the joke is poking some fun at her/himself for being a bit of a grammar nerd,

2. We all know a lot of people online who just don’t care whether they make those mistakes and there is a light rivalry between them and the grammar nerds.

3. Some people’s grammar and spelling is really hilarious.

Um… What? Wait just a minute there.

Number three is a problem. If poor grammar on social media is the equivalent of going out in public disheveled, then laughing at people who present poor grammar is the equivalent of ridiculing a person in public who looks disheveled.

And that person might just be homeless.

Or in the online version, they might be dyslexic, blind, an ESL learner, uneducated due to generational poverty or so stressed by difficult life circumstances that they can’t check over their posts.

Imagine if you will a similar Facebook meme stating, “If I ever start stuffing my face and turn into a fatty, you should take it to mean that I’m trapped in an abusive relationship under threat of violence and that’s how I’m signaling for help.” Imagine a really slim friend posting this.

Okay, it is no longer funny at all. We can probably all agree that this would be insensitive and cruel.

The analogy is closer to home than you may think. Obesity is often considered a product of lazy, lackadaisical habits, just as poor spelling is. But both are often actually caused by or exacerbated by factors beyond a person’s control. Both are also the focus of a lot of overt harassment and ridicule.

I cannot count the number of times someone has called me out online for mixing up a homonym, for a dropped comma or for not catching a bad autocorrect. My specific reasons for these mistakes are being 90 percent blind, using voice recognition to type and being a stressed-out parent on modest means. I’m geographically isolated enough to need social media for both work and social interaction. So I try anyway, but my online escapades are far from perfect.

I’m a professional writer and I graduated suma cum laude in linguistics, so I shouldn’t be sensitive about this

But... ridicule is hard to take, and growing up with a disability I’ve received my full measure. When I see other people ridiculed for it online, even when they are my political opponents, I feel threatened.

Okay, I’ll agree that a president really should check over his tweets. If I were president, I wouldn’t be sending out anything I hadn’t had checked by someone else. There’s having a text disability and there’s being smart about your personal strengths and weaknesses. Presidents can afford line editors and so there isn’t much excuse beyond arrogance and lack of care.

But I still don’t engage in those particular jabs at 45.

I think I did once find that grammar meme funny, years ago, when I first got on social media. I had the same problems I have now with text, but I had not yet encountered the online ridicule over it. A person’s experience of having been ridiculed about the point of the joke does matter.

I recently overreacted to such a joke and called out a friend over it. I felt bad later. I don’t want to be harsh or mean, especially when I’m pretty sure the person who posted it had the first two reasons for humor in mind, not so much the problematic third.

But it is an issue worth thinking about. I have seen my friends who are only intermediate in English be dismissed and laughed off of social media, when it took significant courage for them to speak up in a foreign language. I have been ridiculed for posting in the language of the country where I am an immigrant. It is also a second language for me and I know I make mistakes.

And this is by far not the only joke that many of us may find funny, while it hits someone else like a sucker punch. Some jokes about family relationships may really hurt people who have lost family through adoption or estrangement. Some jokes may reference something sensitive for one group that the individual telling the joke genuinely didn’t realize would be sensitive. Think bananas, jungles and “gypsy” fortune tellers for instance.

I may be experienced enough to personally avoid these, but I’ll guarantee you one thing. There is a joke out there somewhere that I will think is hilarious and either laugh at or share, which will actually hurt someone. And I can pretty much guarantee that the same is true for you.

We don’t know for sure and we’re all likely to make this mistake, no matter what our personal background is. A lot of people will take that as a reason to dismiss the whole thing and say that we should all grow thicker skins and learn to take a joke.

But we know where that leads.

If we say it is all right to tell jokes that hurt people with invisible disabilities or ESL learners, we will be that much closer to social acceptability of overtly racist jokes.

And yet laughter and humor is in desperately short supply. Our hearts cry that the solution cannot be that we walk on eggshells around sharing anything funny.

The best I have for you is this:

1. When I am hurt by such a joke or comment in the future, I will say simply, “That hurts. Here’s why.” I will go back to psychology 101 and use statements starting with “I” rather than accusing the other person of something. I invite you to join me in this resolution.

2. When that unhappy but inevitable day comes when I am told that my humor hurt someone else, I will listen and truly think it through. I will delete jokes that hurt people if it’s online. And I’ll apologize for hurting that person, even if I had no intention of doing so, even if I don’t quite think they are justified.

The experience of hurt is a fact. If it comes from me then I did the hurting. Intention is not irrelevant but it is also not everything. Neither is reasonableness. Saying, “I’m sorry my joke hurt you. Thanks for letting me know. I will try not to hurt you in the future,” costs little.

This isn’t going to solve all the problems of social media or dinner party discourse, let alone the broader world. But it can make our personal circle of social interaction more aware and safer for those who have already had their full measure of hurt.