Pgh Lesbian Correspondents

When I was a younger social worker, I had a boss whom everyone thought was wonderful. Smart, savvy, all the things.

One morning, he took me aside to discuss comments I had made at an event the previous evening. I was out of line – I was complaining about the boss of bosses at a public event. I started to cry, reaching into my pocket for a tissue. I had none.

So I stood up and said I needed to go to the bathroom to get some toilet paper. He made me sit down while he quietly berated me. The tears and snot running down my face, onto my hands was my punishment. He shamed me to prove his point.

I sat there – in a public hallway, not his office or a conference room – dripping with humiliation and self-loathing. I was a terrible person who made a mistake and warranted this public mortification so I would learn to behave.

Actually, he shamed me because he was an abuser and honed in on how to break me. Denying me privacy, a chance to get some tissues or toilet paper to manage my dignity, those were terrible ways to treat anyone. No behavior on my part warranted that level of maltreatment. Even I knew that, but I had nowhere to turn for help.

I haven’t thought about this in years. I don’t remember what I said that was so awful. But I remember the stone cold look in his eyes, the complete lack of compassion, the control he had over me in those moments. He reveled in it.

I remember it when I watch Elon Musk on the television – making America efficient regardless of the human cost. His glee and zest for not just the power, but the punishment is a harrowing reminder of all the muskrats we’ve met throughout our lives.

The muskrats prepared us for this moment.