A few weeks ago, we had a blog prompt asking us to describe a time that we found out that the narrative we'd constructed of an event, person, thing, etc. was vastly different from that of another person's narrative of that same thing. I avoided posting that week because the only instances of mistaken narratives I could think of were traumatic instances, and I didn't have the will or energy to put those stories out there. However, I did think of another one I feel safe sharing with y'all.
About two or three years ago at Thanksgiving time, all of my family had gathered at my parents' house in the small rural town I grew up in. We were all together, having a great time, eating, watching football, talking, the works. At some point, my dad gets my attention and asks me to come into the kitchen. He says I've gotten a weird package in the mail. I come in and look at the parcel and stop dead in my tracks.
I see a gray wooden crate, nailed shut, and no markings as to where it came from. My Dad excitedly insists that we open it and see what's inside. I try to conceal my terror from him, telling him that I don't think we should open it. He doesn't understand, and I don't know how to tell him why I'm so afraid.
Let me give you some background information.
When I was an undergraduate at UNT, I had founded a small student activist group called RAGE (Radical Alliance for Gender Equality.) The main activity we engaged in was clinic defense. This entailed carpooling to an abortion clinic in Fort Worth early in the morning on weekends, coordinating with the staff of the clinic, putting on brightly-colored t-shirts with "CLINIC ESCORT" written on the front to identify us, and asking each patient that arrived at the clinic if they would like someone to walk with them past dozens of angry, screaming, terrifying anti-choice protestors. These protestors ranged from creepy old Catholic grandmas who would, for the most part, keep to themselves, praying their rosaries, and pleading with patients to leave, to enraged, verbally abusive, fire-and-brimstone male Evangelicals who held signs condemning us to eternal damnation and would rush at patients trying to scare them and us. The more extreme protestors would stand in front of us clinic escorts during slow moments and try to threaten us indirectly with either violence, legal punishment, or rejection by God. They would go into the parking lot and take down our license plate numbers, presumably to try to find out who we were and where we lived. What they would do with that information? We didn't know....but we knew it couldn't be good.
At the time, I drove my Dad's Mazda, which was registered in his name and to his home address where we were currently having Thanksgiving dinner.
I thought that my Dad's name and address had been added to one of those notorious spreadsheets of "pro-abortion" people that the more extreme anti-choice protestors shared with their buddies. I thought one of them was finally violent enough to send me a nail bomb in the mail. I though my Dad, blissfully unaware, was about to open this package and I had no idea what would happen to us.
I told him none of this.
My dad finally got tired of trying to convince me and he used a hammer to open the crate. Nothing exploded.
It turns out that my sweet, awesome Dad had actually ordered a Mystery Crate from a service that contained a bunch of expertly crafted artifacts inside that acted as clues that I was supposed to read and put together. It was actually very cool. There was a creepy letter addressed to me from some fictional guy who had tried to solve the mystery before me; a diary from a kid who had apparently gotten possessed by the spirits of the Pendle Witches, an amulet, and a few other weird items that added up to one hell of a fun gift. Dad had been acting surprised and mystified the whole time; in reality, he knew exactly what the package was because he had ordered it.
From his perspective, he had gone to the trouble to commission this gift weeks in advance, crafted by art students, telling a tale catered to my interests. He had presented it to me on Thanksgiving day as a fun treat that we could solve together. From his perspective, I just hated the gift and did not react with joy.
I felt horrible!
I later told him what I had thought it was. I didn't want to tell him in the moment because my whole family was there and watching and I didn't want to bring up abortion on Thanksgiving day. We're all cool now, but I still feel sad and guilty about my reaction when I think about the event to this day.
About two or three years ago at Thanksgiving time, all of my family had gathered at my parents' house in the small rural town I grew up in. We were all together, having a great time, eating, watching football, talking, the works. At some point, my dad gets my attention and asks me to come into the kitchen. He says I've gotten a weird package in the mail. I come in and look at the parcel and stop dead in my tracks.
I see a gray wooden crate, nailed shut, and no markings as to where it came from. My Dad excitedly insists that we open it and see what's inside. I try to conceal my terror from him, telling him that I don't think we should open it. He doesn't understand, and I don't know how to tell him why I'm so afraid.
Let me give you some background information.
When I was an undergraduate at UNT, I had founded a small student activist group called RAGE (Radical Alliance for Gender Equality.) The main activity we engaged in was clinic defense. This entailed carpooling to an abortion clinic in Fort Worth early in the morning on weekends, coordinating with the staff of the clinic, putting on brightly-colored t-shirts with "CLINIC ESCORT" written on the front to identify us, and asking each patient that arrived at the clinic if they would like someone to walk with them past dozens of angry, screaming, terrifying anti-choice protestors. These protestors ranged from creepy old Catholic grandmas who would, for the most part, keep to themselves, praying their rosaries, and pleading with patients to leave, to enraged, verbally abusive, fire-and-brimstone male Evangelicals who held signs condemning us to eternal damnation and would rush at patients trying to scare them and us. The more extreme protestors would stand in front of us clinic escorts during slow moments and try to threaten us indirectly with either violence, legal punishment, or rejection by God. They would go into the parking lot and take down our license plate numbers, presumably to try to find out who we were and where we lived. What they would do with that information? We didn't know....but we knew it couldn't be good.
At the time, I drove my Dad's Mazda, which was registered in his name and to his home address where we were currently having Thanksgiving dinner.
I thought that my Dad's name and address had been added to one of those notorious spreadsheets of "pro-abortion" people that the more extreme anti-choice protestors shared with their buddies. I thought one of them was finally violent enough to send me a nail bomb in the mail. I though my Dad, blissfully unaware, was about to open this package and I had no idea what would happen to us.
I told him none of this.
My dad finally got tired of trying to convince me and he used a hammer to open the crate. Nothing exploded.
It turns out that my sweet, awesome Dad had actually ordered a Mystery Crate from a service that contained a bunch of expertly crafted artifacts inside that acted as clues that I was supposed to read and put together. It was actually very cool. There was a creepy letter addressed to me from some fictional guy who had tried to solve the mystery before me; a diary from a kid who had apparently gotten possessed by the spirits of the Pendle Witches, an amulet, and a few other weird items that added up to one hell of a fun gift. Dad had been acting surprised and mystified the whole time; in reality, he knew exactly what the package was because he had ordered it.
From his perspective, he had gone to the trouble to commission this gift weeks in advance, crafted by art students, telling a tale catered to my interests. He had presented it to me on Thanksgiving day as a fun treat that we could solve together. From his perspective, I just hated the gift and did not react with joy.
I felt horrible!
I later told him what I had thought it was. I didn't want to tell him in the moment because my whole family was there and watching and I didn't want to bring up abortion on Thanksgiving day. We're all cool now, but I still feel sad and guilty about my reaction when I think about the event to this day.
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