In Praise of Graciousness

How a little thing, like not being an angry jerk, can leave a large impression

If you are fortunate enough to write for a living, and the writing actually matters to you (as it should, otherwise, why do it?), every story is like a child, of sorts. You dress it up, wipe its nose, slick its cowlick down, then scoot it out into the world to either be embraced, or pilloried, or ignored. What you write is largely under your control. The reaction to it largely isn’t. Still, you tend not to take kindly to strangers walking by, telling you that your kid has beady eyes or jug ears.

When this happens to me personally – and it happens to all writers personally (writing itself is a fairly personal act) – my knee-jerk reaction is to strike back. When I encounter the equivalent of someone in the stands throwing a beer at me, I will, on occasion, go full Ron Artest. I might mention to said heckler that I don’t randomly show up in their lives, instructing them to spell out their middle name for the sex offender registry, or cautioning them not to over flame-broil the Whoppers. So don’t tell me how to string together nouns and verbs.

There is also, of course, such a thing as writer-on-writer violence. And when you’re criticized by a fellow member of the brotherhood, this can hurt even more. (Even if the brotherhood is way overpopulated and has notoriously lax admission standards.) When I was in my twenties, I once held Robert Bly up to ridicule. The story I was writing wasn’t even about the writer, activist, and leader of the mythopoetic men’s movement. I was just feeling kind of feisty that day, and so, did the equivalent of throwing a random elbow to Bly’s solar plexus while passing in the school cafeteria.

Of Bly’s movement, I wrote: “……..those mad dancers and fierce-fanged men; those ancient beasts at the bottom of Iron John's pond. They spent thousands of dollars recovering their maleness by shedding heavy flannels in isolated glades to gather in sweatlodge percussion sections, chasing the ghosts of Jung and Joseph Campbell, and finally collapsing in sobs from the collective weight of feminist leavening, from the rape of the Industrial Revolution, from our lack of mythology, and from their old man's picking them up 30 minutes late from Little League.”

A few weeks later, I received a one-sentence letter from Robert Bly. It read, in its entirety, “Yours was a stupid slander of my work.” Which kind of hurt my feelings. I mean, I suppose I did slander his work. But I didn’t think I did so stupidly.  And this is how thin-skinned writers tend to be as a breed: They get insulted even when you insult their insults.

But keeping all this in mind, a curious thing happened to me the other day. I had just written a column on the irksome trend of hipsters appropriating fishing hats, even if they’ve never fished. It was drawn from a Wall Street Journal piece on the phenomenon. In order to put a rubber clown nose on them, I liberally quoted many of the Journal’s sources:  the thrift-shop customer named Pierre who was now sporting a Bass Pro Shops hat because it “comes off as masculine” which he found “super cute,” the account executive who likes to pair his fishing hat with Chelsea boots and skinny jeans, etc.

It wasn’t an entirely serious piece – it was, after all, titled “Bassholes.” And I used the trend as a jumping-off point to discuss more important matters, like loss, and attachment, and, well…….fishing. But the piece, which featured a photo of YouTuber/publicity tapeworm Jake Paul wearing a Bass Pro Shops trucker cap, provoked quite a reaction.

It was picked up by the Drudge Report, along with the accompanying photo, which is always like pouring rocket fuel on a piece. Drudge can send even a humble Substack around the world a few times, and though I’ve written about more important things that I’m more attached to (like this on God and Man and Bluebirds), “Bassholes” ended up being my most-viewed column since I launched Slack Tide, garnering over 100,000 hits.

Consequently, while my comments section is usually populated by thoughtful, large-hearted, well-mannered readers who are agreeable even when they’re disagreeing with me, all the additional exposure ensured that the Mongol hordes likewise started coming over the wall. I’m not disclosing state secrets when stating that the internet is populated by people who like to fight for fighting’s sake, regardless of the subject. Even a trivial one like fishing hats.  It always amuses me when trolls will take the time to sign up, just to be able to tell you in your comments section that they couldn’t read a word of this tripe, but that they hated every syllable of it. That they can’t believe you don’t have more important things to discuss, even as they are discussing your discussion that is contained in a piece they purportedly ignored.  (Trolls tend to be governed by rage, not logic.)

And so, for an afternoon,  all the usual troll handiwork started showing up in my comments:  the mind-numbing literalism, the abject humorlessness, the spotty spelling. I have tried, over the years, to condition myself to let insults pass. It’s the Christian thing to do. But my favorite of Christ’s disciples was always Simon Peter, and not just because he was a fisherman. Rather, because I could always relate to him. Peter was generally down with the peace’n’love, turning-the-other-cheek part of the Jesus syllabus. But he was also pretty hot-tempered, and therefore reserved the right to occasionally unsheathe his sword and lop off an ear here or there.

Similarly, I sometimes enjoy hanging trolls on a hook, and working them over like Rocky pounding sides of beef in Paulie’s freezer - just to make an example of them. And so, for instance, I went in and did a little mop-up work, such as when I banned some twerpy pedant who’d begun using foul language in his responses, but not before I abused him, writing: “You should look up ‘a-hole’ in the dictionary. Because you sound like one. And you earned a red card for swearing in anger. (As opposed to just for fun.) We try to be respectful around here. That's why I bleeped the ‘ss's’ in ‘asshole.’  If you can't be respectful, there are other angry places on the internet you can go to work out your issues. Good luck and godspeed.”

I’m not proud of this, mind you. If we’re being honest, my Righteous Avenger shtick is heavier on the vengeance than the righteousness. But that’s all the more reason that what happened next made me second-guess myself. First, a subscription notice came in from a Jacob Gallagher. “I know that name,” I thought. “That’s the byline of the guy from the Wall Street Journal whose piece I just publicly mocked.”

A half an hour or so later, an email arrived from the very same Jacob Gallagher, with the subject line, “Re: Bass Pro Hats (I wrote the Journal article)”. Here we go, I thought. Time to gird myself for a testy Robert-Bly-like exchange. The hazards of picking on people from afar is that sometimes, they want to respond in kind from anear. But it’s the cost of doing business. I readied for conflict. Yet instead, I received a kind and gracious note from Gallagher. It read: “Thoroughly enjoyed your response. Which was much deeper than a response. For what it’s worth, I’m not as much of an outdoors moron as I think you took me as. Just a reporter on a beat. Regardless, thanks for the food for thought.”

I wrote back immediately. I told Gallagher he was being a great sport. That I didn’t specifically mention his name in the essay, because I didn’t want him to come in for personal abuse. While I stood by my piece – I don’t publish things I can’t stand by – I apologized if I offended him. But it wasn’t about him. It was about a cranky fisherman needing something to write. I added that if he were ever in town, I’d be happy to buy him a drink to make amends for being a surly prick.

He wrote back:

Matt,
Oh no offense taken at all. I fully understand it wasn’t about me. I crank {out} about two stories a week, if I was liable to get riled up anytime someone cut an article down, I’d be one bitter human. Have to take it all in stride. It was just nice to read your perspective and see you take it to a different place. Always love hearing people’s personal connections/backstories on, well, just about anything. I suppose that’s why I became a reporter after all.

Most certainly would love to grab a drink when COVID clears – I tested positive this AM. Seems to be hitting NY like a runaway train. Let’s keep in touch.

Stay well and stay safe,
Jacob

Jacob’s graciousness might be a small thing, but it’s so uncharacteristic of the way People of the Rage-isphere come at each other now, that it left a big impression on me.  He repaid my unkindness with kindness, and even a generosity of spirit.  Not only did he not condemn or argue with what I did in print, but he took the time to see what I was trying to do – even if it came at his expense.  And he did so on the very day that my piece, making sport of his piece, traveled around the world as he caught the dreaded plague.  (“I feel foggy,” he admitted. “Head in a bucket of mud sort of feeling.  Strange virus this is!”)

Jacob Gallagher, mensch

We conversed more, and I found out, though we write about completely different things (he covers men’s fashion and apparel for the Journal – my raggedy fishing hats would likely not cut it on the catwalks of Milan) we have plenty in common. We’re both Marylanders. We both were somewhat formed by music – I’m a soul man. Jacob was once a hardcore skate punk.  We both love the outdoors. Though he’s not a fly fisherman, like me, the former Boy Scout grew up doing a lot of hiking and rock climbing. We both, it turns out, have COVID.  Karma must have been minding the store, and I was struck the day after Jacob was. (I’m writing with COVID as we speak. Please don’t inhale this column.)

While he’d thanked me for giving him food for thought, it’s actually him that got me thinking. Jacob’s twenty years my junior. And while we middle-aged guys often like to think we have nothing left to learn, or that we’re so set in our ways, new tricks are wasted on us, Jacob’s response has me wondering if I wouldn’t do better to be like him when I grow up.  If I can manage to, say, stop hanging trolls on hooks, or calling them “a—holes.”  I’m a work in progress. But maybe I can start by bleeping out more letters. So that when I do go all Simon Peter, and my vanity and aggression get the better of me, perhaps I will instead call someone a much more respectful “a------. “

It’s kind of confusing, and looks like a game of Hangman.  Neither is it as high-minded as Jacob Gallagher’s Way. But so much of what makes us human is our imperfection. And you have to crawl before you walk.

Bonus Book Pick:

Speaking of grace, my old friend Kirsten Powers, star of page and screen (CNN), has a terrific new book out called Saving Grace:  Speak Your Truth, Stay Centered, and Learn to Coexist with People Who Drive You Nuts.  As the title suggests, it’s a book about forgiveness, letting anger go, and embracing “repentance and repair” instead of constantly hunting for our next cage match. But you don’t have to take my word for it. Take that of the great writer/Franciscan priest Richard Rohr, who said of Kirsten’s book: “It is not often that intelligence and spirituality are put together as well as Powers does in this highly engaging road map for pursing a life of grace.”

Excerpt:

Grace is good for the world, but it’s also really, really good for you. It keeps you from giving away your power or becoming that which you oppose. When you reject the revenge, aggression, domination, and retaliation that are the hallmarks of our culture and respond with grace, you bring peace into the world. You bring peace into your heart…….It is substantial and muscular. It is a force in its own right. It is our strength in times of trouble. It points us to the possibilities in people and in our country. It conjures up images of something more than what we have – of a place where the idea of the “other” does not exist. Grace is an idea worth saving, and in the end, it might just be what saves us – in ways we have not yet imagined.

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