Family, Facebook, & Knowing Who To Friend

This is a story about a woman named Rebecca.

Actually, it’s a story about a woman named Kateri, but it’s told through my relationship with a woman named Rebecca.

Actually, that’s not right either. The truth is that it’s a story that’s told through my- as yet- complete non-relationship with a woman named Rebecca. Who’s the sister of a guy named Jason.

Is this confusing enough for you?

Let me explain:

The Thing About Facebook

Okay, here’s the thing: Facebook can be scary.

You seem to friend a bunch of people whom you don’t even know, when they are convinced that they are your closest friends.

I mean, I’ve “friended” 3rd cousins- 3rd cousins! These are people whom I haven’t ever met. People whom are tangentially related to me- through people whom I haven’t ever met!

Granted, they’re family, but still! In a word: Sheesh!

So, I have this rule that I’m working into: Facebook is reserved for people I interact with.

The thing about this is that it’s social media, right? Social, as in: I actually see you… and  I interact with you… and, you know… I know who the fuck you are when I bump into you on the street.

So, I’m slowly going through my list of well over a few hundred friends and culling them.

Sound cruel?

Listen, we as a species have had about 1.5 million years of slowly distancing ourselves from people we just don’t interact with. No, shut up. You’re not going to make me feel bad about dropping some person from my friend list when we didn’t like each other for the 1 year we knew each other in high school; especially when we’ve had 20+ years of not knowing each other. Granted, they may be a great guy, but if we don’t actually- you know- interact, then there should be no feelings of negativity on either side. It just happens.

People grow apart- especially when they don’t know who the other person is! Stop making a big deal about it.

This Crazy Chic: Part I

So, anyway, there’s this chic. In order to protect her identity, let’s call her Rebecca. In order to further protect her identity, let’s call her Rebecca Shoopaloopa-I-Can’t-Pronounce-Her-Last-Name-Any-Damn-Way. She’s the sister of the husband of a former co-worker of mine.

Yes. The sister… of the husband… of a former co-worker of mine.

Sounds like Star Wars, doesn’t it?

Luke, I am your father…

Noooooo!

Anyway, this chic “friends” me on Facebook, and- before I realize who she is- I have to actually think about who she might know, who might know me, who I might know.

That’s Facebook. You get a “friend request” and think: “Shit, who do you know, whom I know, who might know something about me that I don’t remember that I did one night that I don’t even remember when I was drunk after a football game when I was all fucked up about my girlfriend dumping me and…”

You get the picture.

Honestly, nothing in my life is that bad. I mean, despite the long hair, tattoos and fake “badass” attitude, I’m a freakin’ goodie-goodie who can count his “female conquests” on one hand.

…and I’m not even using all the fingers to count on, people!

No, seriously! 4 is the number.

I’m nearly 40.

Average: One woman every 10 years.

Oh, and I like it that way.

Anyway, I get this “friend request” and see that it’s the sister… of the husband… of a former co-worker of mine.

What the hell do I do now? I mean, it’s Facebook- so not friending someone is this big statement, right? But I’m currently trying to limit my “friends” to a more “real” number, so what do I do?

Well, despite the days of consideration and worry, and the possible implications…

I “ignored” it.

This, in Facebook-land means something- and it means something big.

No-one knows what that something is because, shit, let’s face it, you push the “ignore” button and the problem goes away. Who the fuck cares what that something is. No-one knows what it means, but it does mean something. It’s the interwebs… every-freakin’ thing means some-freakin’ thing!

But, to understand what this all means, we need to back-up a bit.

It Was The Job From Freakin’ Hell, People!

Last year, I had the worst job ever.

Actually, that’s not honest. I mean, I’m sure that the worst job ever is probably something like slugging baby seals in the head with a blunt mallet seconds before you pose naked over a baby carriage in a Hustler centerfold.

There are, after all, probably a whole host of jobs out there that sucked a shitload worse than mine did.

In fact, all things considered, the job itself wasn’t that bad. All I did was pretend to care about the cancer causing jet fuel that was pooled under some old ladies house-and-only-living-investment-thank-you-very-much.

The problem wasn’t actually the job- as bad as that was. The problem was the boss.

Have you ever listened to a show like “This American Life” where they do a feature of “really bad bosses- people who don’t even seem like real people because they are so mentally fucked up that they don’t even correctly see reality?”

Ever listen to one of those shows?

You remember the beginning of this diatribe where I mention Kateri? This is actually where she comes in.

Not because she was that boss- or because she is anything like that. No, quite the opposite. Kateri is the sole reason that I was able to survive with that boss for one year.

Describing the situation would take an article of its own– shit, it’d take a whole blog– and I actually thought of creating one. No, no room for that, so I’ll just say this: I grew up in The Project (yeah, the ones you see on TV. With the cockroaches and the domestic violence and shit? Those ones.), I served in both The Army and The Navy, I’ve seen it all, and I can say without a doubt that this is the worst boss I’ve ever seen.

And yet, a really nice guy. Honestly. You’d meet him on the street and think “He was a nice guy.”

Working for him is different.

Seriously. In one stream of explanation, while describing why I might not be happy working for him, he told me that: 1) Everyone hates their job, so I shouldn’t try to be different; 2) I might be psychologically impaired, and that I might consider treatment for depression; and 3) that I should really consider accepting Jesus Christ as my personal savior to get me through this difficulty with dealing with reality.

No, that’s not a fucking joke.

He said those three things to me. All in, basically, one single breath.

Yeah, seriously. Three completely bat-shit crazy reasons why I might not be happy working for a fucking psychopath.

And yet, strangely, he was a nice guy.

Talk about confusing! I actually consider stopping by to chat with him sometimes as a person.

Yet, as a boss, I very seriously considered pissing on my office floor, driving my car into the corner of his building, stepping on his throat to watch him gag, and then killing myself as I burned his building- and then his house- to the fucking ground.

No, seriously.

That’s not a joke.

I actually brought matches to work one day.

No, people, I’m not fucking kidding you on this.

I. Brought. Matches.

Superwoman. No, really. Freakin’ Superwoman!

So, about the 3 month mark working for Mr. Nice-Guy-Bat-Shit-Crazy-Fucking-Psychopath, I started thinking “Um, this is really not my gig.”

At the 5.999 month mark, I said “Fuck this, I’m outta here.”

At the 6.001 month mark– the next freakin’ day– (that’s the day after Obama’s victory) I said “Shit, my wife just got laid off! I can’t quit!”

At the 10.3 month mark (Did I mention the journal? with the dates and all?), I said “Wait! Shit! This is a metal building with a concrete slab foundation- one single book of matches ain’t going to do a fucking thing!”

At the 11.998 month mark, I said “Fuck it, I quit.”

That’s the short story. The long story is that there’s this under-appreciated, overlooked, hardworking, supremely dedicated, blind-as-hell-if-she’s-been-here-for-11-employees woman whom I complained to every-freakin’-day! This person is the only one who convinced me I was sane. She was the sister, much like my little sister, whom I could complain to and who said “You’re right.”

She’s the only person whom I could turn to for sanity. She knew, she lived it. And- crazily- she still stayed dedicated to the boss while simultaneously telling me my feelings were valid. She’d been there for years. Her entire life, it seemed, was dedicated to making her boss’ Titanic of a business succeed- while simultaneously making his life better.

She did this while she supported the emotional catastrophe of something like eleven employees- all of whom lasted less than two years a piece. She did this while she maintained her dedication to her boss. She did this while she dealt with the feelings of inadequacy because her boss treated her like furniture (and cheap, garage-sale furniture!). She did this while she, as furniture, did her best to improve his, and our lives. She did all this while maintaining her family, and her sanity, all while working for a measly 20 badly paid hours a week. And she did it all while suffering from a medical affliction which, let’s face it, gets worse with stress.

You know when you listen to “This American Life” and there’s that story about the person who was too good, too strong, too kind and selfless? You know when you hear about that person and think they only exist on the radio?

I worked with that person.

This Crazy Chic: Part II

So, this is where I break my own rules. In more ways than one.

Native culture is a subtle culture. You may not think so from the outside, but we- inside- know the truth. Those lucky enough to speak, or know something of, their native language know that every word has two, and sometime three or four meanings. You can call someone a “big bear” with the exact same words you use to call them “Small and shrivelled.”¹

So, I break a rule here by being at once forward and open as well as simple and direct. There is no subtlety in what I say. Which is strange for me– even walking the razor’s edge that I do.

This crazy chic “friended” me on Facebook, and I had to figure out what the story was. I didn’t think I’d ever build a relationship with her, so I pressed the “ignore button.”

Problem solved, right?

Well, not quite.

Family, Facebook, & Knowing Who To Friend

Recently– today, as a matter of fact– this superwoman (again, we’ll call her “Kateri”) decided that she’d had enough. She turned in her notice. She quit.

To say that I was happy is an understatement.

You see, there’s this thing called survivor guilt, and whether I’m actually suffering from it or not, I like to think about it because it makes me feel better about the time I spent in hell.

… or at least in heck.

She gave notice, and I freaked out. This person who was always there for me is finally escaping darkness. I’m happy, her friends are happy, her family’s happing. So there’s a bit of a Facebook Frenzy.

She comments, her friends comment, I comment (as someone who has… you know… “been on the inside” and shit.) and this chic Rebecca comments. This chic who tried to friend me.

This chic who I ignored because I don’t know her, and may not ever really get to know her.

Honestly, I didn’t think anything of it. Ignored. Problem solved.

But then, Kateri writes to me and says something like “Just so you know, Rebecca may be doing a protective thing with  her brother- she may be trying to keep tabs on any male friends I have on Facebook.”

I can only assume that was a warning that I may be in danger of getting the shit kicked out of me. I imagine that I’m supposed to be worried.

Yet immediately, I thought “Hey, I suddenly like this Rebecca chic. I should friend her.”

I know- there are boundary issues, privacy issues, whose-fucking-business-is-it-of-yours issues. Whatever. But here’s the thing. My little sister would kick the shit out of anyone who’d fuck with me.

At least she’d try, and that’s really all that matters, right?

That’s family. I love her for it.

And it looks like Rebecca might want to kick the shit out of me… that is in the unlikely event that I’m trying to fuck with her brother.² She’d try to kick some ass the same as my sister would.

That’s cool.

Whatever you think about Facebook, and about friending, and about boundaries- this is family. It’s family, and Facebook, and knowing who to friend.

The thing is, Kateri is like a sister to me. She’s no-one I’d screw around with– mostly because she’s not my type… not being Jessica, and all… but also because there are people who you think of as “cousin,” (that’s as close as “brother” or “sister,” by the way.)) Some people are “Family” and  some people aren’t. Kateri is, at least in some small way, my cousin. She helped me when I was in a bad spot, and I want to help her.

That makes anyone who cares about her, especially “members of her husband’s family who may only be interested in me because they want to preserve her family’s integrity by kicking the shit out of someone they don’t know enough about,” special.

So…

This is a very long-winded way of saying something like:

Rebecca, I thought you wanted to friend me because it was Facebook, and it’s easy, and  it’s meaningless, so I ignored your request. But now there’s the possibility that you wanted to friend me because it’s family, and it’s meaningful, and you care- and may just want to kick my ass. I respect you for that. I ignored you before, but I’ve just requested that you friend me because, without subtlety or second meanings I want to say this: I love Kateri- just as you love her. She is my cousin, as you are my cousin. May our family be strong. May it be strong, and honest.And may you kick the shit out of me if I step out of line!

You’re a good sister. Thank you for being such.

Sometimes Facebook bugs me…

sometimes, it makes me feel pretty darn good.

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1. This is not a joke- I refer you to a certain missionary to my Lakhota ancestors, who demanded that the tribal elders give him the name “Great bear.” They did. He was not subtle enough to know that his “Indian name” also meant something like “dried up and shriveled.” You see, he was something of a scrawny man. Tribal languages– even those in pre-christian Europe- are very subtle. [↩]
2. remember the number 4? Good. [↩]