Sunday, June 29, 2008

I don't know of any more direct route to hatred and resentment than favoritism. I've had to deal with the butt end of favoritism my entire life, and I just can't cope with it anymore.

When I was a teenager, I worked in the woods all day long, keeping up with grown men. After the wood was brought to the house and while the men sat down for their coffee break, I split the wood and stacked it. I worked like that until dark, and then my mom, seeing me exhausted, would say I was lazy because I hadn't done any housework. Lazy! Lazy! Lazy! The word still cuts into my heart. I may have been a lot of things, but lazy wasn't one of them. Meanwhile, my goody two shoes sisters, having stayed home baking cookies, folding laundry, and dusting furniture while I worked in freezing rain with soggy cloth gloves, were held up to me as examples of industry that I should strive to emulate.

They were cheerful! They had clean dresses on while my work jeans were shredded and damp and frankly filthy! Their hands were clean and soft while mine were calloused and ingrained with soil and sap stains! They had neatly styled hair while mine had twigs and pine needles and bark tangled in it! They did dishes and housework! Their shoes weren't dirty! They were ladylike!

And they would stand there, perky, prim and proper, with white tennis shoes and pretty skirts, while I sagged with fatigue in my work boots, jeans, and flannel shirt, all thoroughly soiled with various elements of forest.

I hate it. I hate it, I tell you. I hate the goody two shoes and I hate favoritism and this is why I don't like working with other women. All they have to do to earn favor is to act all feminine and fakey-smiley-cheerful and clean-happy and they can get away with just about anything. I hate it. I can't understand why people in charge (parents, bosses, whoever) can't see through this shit. It hurts me.

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