Please Stop Laughing at Us . . . by Jodee Blanco

Author:Jodee Blanco
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Self-Help
ISBN: 9781936661374
Publisher: BenBella Books
Published: 2011-10-16T16:00:00+00:00

Every time I tell myself this work is too much, something always happens that reminds me why I started doing it in the first place, and why I can’t walk away. By the time Eileen and I are settled in our Baltimore hotel, I’m cranky and tired and just want to go home. I begin to have doubts that I’m as strong and unselfish as I thought, and that maybe I’m like the bride who elopes, then discovers that she was never cut out to be a wife. The problem with being an activist is that people expect courage and selflessness from you all the time, and when you need some privacy, not only do they often think less of you but you think less of yourself, too. Then one day you wake up with a chip on your shoulder the size of a cue ball. I don’t want to become that whiny author-activist I often had to work with during my publicist days, who resents how much she’s had to sacrifice. The night before my first talk in Baltimore, I come crashing into this realization, only to have the angelic hands of hope wrap around my throat and choke the fear out of me. Will I get to the point where I’m more afraid of hope than of doubt, because hope is guaranteed never to let me out of this relentless race?

I learn this in Baltimore.

Though a few students request one-on-ones with me after my first talk, I can’t help thinking that I blew it, that this audience didn’t respond the way previous ones have. A large group of kids were whispering to each other and passing notes throughout the entire presentation and didn’t appear to be paying attention. Despite my repeated attempts to engage their interest, I couldn’t get them to come around. As I’m beating myself up, wondering where I went wrong, a student approaches me and introduces herself as one of the “preps,” the most popular clique at school. She says her name is Brittany and asks if she and her friends can talk with me privately. Surprised, I tell her that I’ll be in the all-purpose room which the principal, who’s really on the ball in this district, arranged for me to use in anticipation of one-on-ones. Moments later, Brittany walks in, accompanied by at least thirty other students, the same ones who I could have sworn weren’t hearing a word I was saying. Impeccably dressed, they look like they just jumped off the pages of a J. Crew catalog. “Your speech really hit home,” one of them says.

“For me, too,” several others respond in unison.

“I didn’t think you guys were listening,” I remark, stunned.

“You had us totally freaked.”

“Why?” I ask.

“You know how you said you’re damaged because of what happened to you?” Brittany says.

I nod my head.

“There’s this kid, Eric, and we’ve been treating him the way you were treated in school, and we feel bad about it,” she says. Then, glancing around the room at her friends, for support, she adds, “We want him to know how sorry we are.

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