Message to Men: If You See Something, Say Something by guest @CuttingRoomMRB

 

Give a moment or two to the angry young man
With his foot in his mouth and his heart in his hand
He’s been stabbed in the back, he’s been misunderstood
It’s a comfort to know his intentions are good

Billy Joel – The Angry Young Man

Speaking as a man, I find myself in a difficult spot lately. With tensions as high as they are surrounding the recent sexual harassment firestorm in the entertainment industry, the last thing anybody wants to hear from men are platitudes like “Not all men are bad” or “As a man, I am disgusted that this kind of behavior still exists.” Talk like that is a dismissive if well-intentioned form of sympathy but, often times it is the only thing men can say. Sharing one’s own experiences, however, is much more difficult.

I want to be clear that I am not seeking a single ounce of sympathy in writing this piece.

My only objective is to offer some form of what I hope is received as solidarity in this safe but, relatively narrow space. In the interest of protecting the guilty and fear of possible retaliation online, I’m going to refer to the players in my stories as Mr. W, Mr. X, Mr. Y, and Mr. Z. Not all of the incidents you’re about to read were sexual in nature either but, I will try to keep my focus there.

Bullying 

I grew up in an idyllic little town about 30 miles north of Montreal called Lorraine. This was a typical white-collar suburb that looked like something out of a Norman Rockwell painting. Being in the province of Quebec, the town was mostly French-speaking which meant that the few English speaking families moved in much closer circles.

Though you never saw it amongst the adults, there was a definite food chain when it came to us kids and for the group my age, I was at the very bottom of it. The ringleader was a stout, vicious little bastard named Mr. W who for some reason had an ability to get all of the other boys in the neighborhood to do pretty much whatever he wanted them to do – including terrorizing yours truly both mentally and physically.

From the ages of roughly seven to fifteen, my daily reality was finding clever places to hide to avoid Mr. W’s mob or run like hell if they found me. Sometimes I was able to get away and sometimes I went home with fresh emotional scars or actual bruises. However, once I did get home, my parents (though good people) weren’t much help. Because they were friends with the parents of these kids, the pressure fell to me to go back outside and make amends with the same kids who were giving me such a hard time so that my parents could maintain their friendships.

My parents never put it in exactly those terms of course but, I could think of no other reason why they’d ask me to do it. Part of me understood and even empathized with them. I had a sister who was three years younger than me and was much more popular with her generation of kids than I was with mine. It wasn’t fair for them to hold grudges against everyone else in town just because I was having a hard time. I honestly believed them when they said I’d grow out of it and once I graduated from high school, the likelihood of my ever seeing these guys again was minimal. I could just wait things out.

When Bullying Turns to Violence 

One of the last times I was ever hurt at the hands of this group was in Junior High. While barreling down a hallway to avoid yet another pummeling, I made a sharp turn around a corner. Waiting for me was a member of the gang named Mr. X who kicked me head first into a concrete wall. The pain was blinding. I remember hitting the ground and curling up into a tight ball with my hands over my head. Mr. W and the rest of his group circled around me and kicked me all over screaming profane insults until a hall supervisor finally broke through and carted me to the nurse’s office.

My father, who was on the school’s administration staff was called in to see me. The nurse was insistent that I get checked out by a doctor as she was worried I might suffer a concussion. Dad dropped everything at work and I spent the afternoon and evening in the hospital. That night at home, my parents woke me up once an hour to make sure that I was still conscious. I was back at school the next morning and tried to act like nothing had happened. Mr. X thanked me for not having identified him as the one who kicked me but, otherwise expressed no concern for my welfare.

Right around the same time, there was another bully outside of Mr. W’s group entirely that I never told anyone about until well into my adulthood. Even then, it was only to a few people and certainly not my parents or siblings.

Sexual Assault 

Mr. Y was a year older than me but, still in my grade having flunked his first attempt at eighth grade. I now feel compelled to give you, the reader, the benefit of cutting to the chase so, allow me to be blunt. This was my first encounter with sexual assault and it went on for pretty much the whole school year.

Mr. Y’s routine with me was to “pretend” that he was gay and in the two classes that we shared together (French and Gym) would do everything he could to make my life miserable. It started with him sneaking up on me and whispering all the disgusting things he would do to me if he ever caught me alone.

When he got bored with the verbal taunts, he started to try to grab my genitals while making his threats – even succeeding on a couple of occasions. I became terrified of going to Gym class in particular because it involved changing clothes and I tried to invent every excuse I could not to go. Eventually, two other kids who I didn’t know very well began to take notice of how scared I was of Mr. Y and convinced him to leave me alone.

So, now we flash forward a few years. Mr. W, Mr. X, and Mr. Y are all distant memories. I’m in university muddling my way through a series of other press-worthy and mostly self-inflicted issues that would make for another good piece of writing at a later date.

One quiet afternoon, I’m minding my own business buying a few things at the grocery store for my mother when a voice calls out my name. A tall, lean, professional looking young man with a broad friendly grin approaches me that I didn’t recognize at first. “Casey? It’s me… Mr. Y… we were friends in high school, remember?”

I had a full-on panic attack right there in the store. The tone of his voice was what scared me the most. This guy was actually standing there talking to me like I would be happy to see him. I left my cart where it was and ran out of the store in search of the nearest pay phone. I called a close friend who had then known some (but, not all) of what I’ve just shared. He took the time to talk me through the panic attack and over the next several minutes, was able to convince me that I wasn’t in any danger.

After hanging up with him, I went back to the store and found my cart right where I’d left it and Mr. Y nowhere in sight.

Flashing 

By now, I was working a steady job as a waiter at the local branch of a large, well-known family restaurant chain. The hours were long and the money was bad but, some of the characters I met along the way were hilarious and usually made it a fun place to be. That was until I was introduced to the unique brand of humor from a line cook named Mr. Z.

Several of the staff had signature pranks that they would pull on people just for the sake of killing time. One guy was an expert with accents and would routinely call in pretending to make dinner reservations with the manager – making increasingly ridiculous demands until the poor boss caught on.

Mr. Z? Mr. Z liked to flash people. He only ever did this with guys because (presumably) he knew that if he tried it with women, he’d get fired. He used to wear these loose fitting shorts and then surprise an unsuspecting male coworker in the break room by lifting his apron and showing the goods. The first time it happened to me, I was so shocked that I launched my glass of soda at him and ran from the place. Mr. Z would have gotten away with it too because I never planned to say anything but, in the short time it took me to catch my breath, he was bragging about it and I had much of the staff laughing at me when I did come back.

Oddly, it did feel like they were congratulating me on some sort of perverse rite of passage. The only trouble was that I didn’t appreciate the joke. I made noise about reporting him to management but, a group of the guys talked me out of it. My being obviously grossly inexperienced with women at the time also didn’t help my case so, I was the long-term subject of a lot of mean-spirited sexual innuendo humor from both the men and women on the staff. That hurt but, I learned to drown it out.

Another member of the team even acted as a peacemaker between myself and Mr. Z. Mr. Z apologized for showing me his “junk” (as men sometimes say) and I told him that I would try to keep my temper under control and promised I wouldn’t take the problem to management.

It’s Your Turn, Guys — Say Something 

To use my dear friend Rachel’s expression, when it comes to assault or harassment, “Mancode” dictates that you stay quiet.

Men don’t tell on other men. Only wimps do that.

Men take harassment and find a way to process it as a learning opportunity.

Men either get tough or pack up shop and find a new place to call home.

But, most importantly, men need to cut through the bullshit and speak up more when they get hurt. Barring that, if you see something, say something.

My name is Casey Ryan and as a man, I have one last thing to say.

“Me too.”

 

Casey Ryan is the host and creator of “The Cutting Room Floor” – a talk-radio style podcast that seeks to promote independent entertainers of all types. Casey has an extensive background in corporate sales and often uses his skills to help market his guests’ projects on air. To contact Casey, please follow him on Twitter or like his Facebook page.

 

For Rachel’s poetry and memoirs, go to Amazon

Broken Pieces and Broken Places