Game Changer

by Neal Shusterman

And then I went out to protest police brutality with him, standing with a hand-painted sign and a fist in the air. I thought that was enough to show him I was on the right side of history.

I have a different perspective now.

They say that misery loves company. That never rang true for me. But I do know that when you’re facing a vast unknown, company is the only thing that makes it bearable.

We are so limited. As a species. As individuals. Not only can’t we see the future, we can’t even see the present for what it is. We’re too clouded by the things we want and the things we fear. But worse than any other blindness is that we can’t see the consequences of our actions.

eggshells are practically magical in all dimensions,”

It made me wonder how many important causes were crushed not by opposition, but by lukewarm support.

And also by useless measures.

“I didn’t hit him, I tackled him,” Leo said. Then he let out a bitter laugh. “Your tackle changes the world. Mine just screws up my life.”

If we guys knew what we girls thought about our junk, we’d be far less impressed with ourselves.

His arm felt heavy around me. But it also felt warm. But it also felt restrictive. But it also felt comforting. But it also felt stifling. It was impossible to make sense of all my conflicting emotions, and they kept changing moment to moment, like I was spinning and lurching on the harvest fair Tilt-a-Whirl after all.

Even if they begin with good intentions, in their heart of hearts abusers believe love is about control. They believe it’s about possession. And why shouldn’t they? It’s the ugly underbelly of every love song ever written. Don’t believe me? How many love songs have the words “you’re mine” in the core of the lyrics? Or “I’ll never let you go,” or “you belong to me.”

You want to hear that our relationship was a perpetual nightmare, don’t you? It would be so much easier if I could tell you that. But my memories were a confusing mix. Some were actually warm fuzzy things—the kinds of memories that make you smile. But those good memories were riddled by the bullets of the bad ones. Harsh, secret things that are hard to share even with your closest friends. We want to portray abusers as having no redeeming qualities. We want to believe a guy who can treat a woman like that is evil through and through. In movies and TV, you always know the abuser, because he’s BAD with a capital B. It’s all clear-cut and simple, and we shake our heads at the poor women who are naïve enough to fall for them. Can’t they see that capital B? What’s wrong with them? It makes the rest of us feel good to know we’re so much smarter. But that’s not real life.

Because most abusers aren’t assholes in wifebeaters who smack their bitch around because “she deserves it.” They’re guys wearing a T-shirt of your favorite band. They’re funny and charming, and genuine and respectful, right until the moment they’re not. But by the time those nastier colors bleed through, you’re already snared. Because by then, they know you. They know exactly where your buttons are—not just your buttons but your wounds, too. All those soft vulnerable places filled with self-doubt. They find those places, insert themselves deep, and have their way.

They’re not nukes; they’re radiation zones. They’re not tornadoes; they’re balmy summer skies, where the morning sun makes you forget the thunderstorm that’s coming in the afternoon.

And I realized that what makes sexism so infuriating isn’t just the obvious things, but the things you’re not entirely sure about. Those insidious moments that make you wonder if you’re just being paranoid, or if you’re entirely right, but being gaslit by people who want you to believe you’re crazy. How maddening to live with such uncertainty! To feel diminished by a world that keeps you on such shaky ground!

The asshole box. And it’s the most nondiscriminatory box there is. It’s home to people of every race, creed, party, and orientation. It’s big enough to hold presidents, and small enough to sit on your Thanksgiving table between the turkey and your uncle Bob. It’s a truly dangerous box, because it can masquerade as many things, so you’re never really sure what it is you’re fighting.

The problem is, the asshole box nests way too comfortably within the racist box. And when it does, it becomes a well-fed parasite.

Sadly, I believe that bastard jail clerk exists in all worlds. Screaming at him makes no difference. Raging against him might satisfy our fury but won’t make him go away. We can refuse to feed the hateful thin...

I think the only way to fight the parasite in the box within a box is to keep shining a relentless light, so it can find no shadows to hide in. Maybe then it will finally reveal itself for what it really is: a s...