Hope, Frustration, and Jolly Ranchers

My partner and I have recently moved to a very red state with equally red dirt.

I was nervous to move here, having spent my entire lifetime trying to distance myself from hateful, aggressive, sweaty men at family dinners and church events and what-have-you.

But alas, the previous state we lived in was reddish purple anyway and I was tired of shoveling snow and trying to feel alive again by taking scalding hot showers and giving bae a heart attack every time he saw the water bill.

I like change.

I get bored easily.

I do not sit still.

I like mountains and yards made of intricate patterns of stone and cacti.

When we moved into our new house, a white man with white hair mozied over from across the street and introduced himself by telling my partner just how rich he was.

He then followed up this off-putting introduction with the non-question, “Well I hope you’re not a liberal, cuz I’m not.”

To which bae replied, “That’s nice,” and promptly changed the subject.

In the weeks since, I have had fake arguments with this crab apple in my head every time I’ve already been in a bad mood about the heat or you know, the state of America.

What an interesting way to introduce yourself. I usually start with something like, ‘hello my name is,’ before announcing my tax bracket unrequested. But, what do I know.

And back and forth and back and forth in my own brain as I furiously cleaned my house. You get it. *collective inhale, and exhale*

I had successfully avoided meeting this man myself (it has been 110 degrees everyday and I don’t go outside) until two evenings ago. I was standing on the sidewalk getting devoured by mosquitos (Really, mother nature? Scorpions and rattlesnakes are not enough?) talking to another neighbor while our dogs played and Mr. I-own-8-houses-and-I-fart-diamonds pulled out of his driveway and pulled right up to us.

He rolled down the window of his Lexus and asked another non-question. “Well, I don’t know if you ladies are Christian or not…” *Dramatic pause for response that neither of us chose to provide* “But if you are, pray for my wife, Dolores.* She has cancer.”

*I think her name was Dolores, I don’t listen very well when I am pre-annoyed by an interaction I don’t want to have.

He proceeded to monologue, telling us (and I wish this weren’t a real quote) that she “hadn’t been doing a good job unpacking the house” (they had also recently moved in) and “was tired all the time.” After a few weeks, he decided to take her to the doctor, who broke the news that she had cancer in many of her major organs and gave her four months to live. The man then said, “So her name is Dolores. If you can pray for her.”

Then he told us he prefers koi fish to dogs because koi fish do not bark and he rolled up his window and drove off.

I do not like being commanded to do things, particularly by men who quite frankly, make my teeth grinding exceptionally worse. But I felt for Dolores.

1: She was married to this twat omelet and

2: She had cancer.

In the days since this interaction, my brain has been a highlight reel of Hallmark movie scenarios in which I am a caring neighbor, dropping off chicken pot pie and get-well cards and whatnot, and this man slowly recognizes that women are humans and decides not to vote our rights away. It reads like a Christmas movie with an old curmudgeon and chatty young neighbor who he doesn’t like except that he does like her and by the end of the movie he gazes thoughtfully out his window while eating a delicious pot pie and he realizes that maybe he is an asshole.

I have had two friends who have gone through chemo. One of whom I even took to an infusion appointment and colored with her in her “Dapper Animals” coloring book while she was high as a kite.

During treatments, she used to suck on Jolly Ranchers, one after the other, like a choo-choo train of potential dental catastrophe.

Apparently, once the chemo hits your system, it gives you a terrible taste in your mouth. I imagined it to be like a burning plastic taste or an acidic non-taste, but I don’t know why and I have no idea.

My Hallmark reel suggested that I buy Dolores some Jolly Ranchers and write her a card about my friend and how these may help her through her own chemo. I begrudgingly went to the grocery store down the street, but it did not have Jolly Ranchers or any sort of candy other than organic gummy bears (tell me, how). It was reminiscent of an anti-vax minimart where you can buy cauliflower rice (also, what) and not be exposed to such evils as candy.

I took this unsuccessful trip as a sign that the universe was absolving me of any (in the end, totally selfish) niceness, and I went home.

The next day, I went to a glorious tiny coffee shop that had rainbow flags and people with tattoos of panda bears on their arms. I went in to sign a series of petitions, the most important of which was a petition to get reproductive rights on our new state’s ballot for this November. It was such a magical environment that it re-ignighted the Hallmark reel in my head.

Fiiiine. Maybe the world is good. Maybe even angry demanding old men can change. Maybe I can find some Jolly Ranchers in the damn desert.

So I decided to go to Walmart, a store in my new unknown town that I knew would have candy. When I parked, I saw a large SUV with window paint on the back windshield that read, “We won’t stop at Roe.”

Since I had just been in a Utopian coffee shop surrounded by loving, sensible, empowered humans, I interpreted this under the influence of my previous environment. I smiled and thought hell yes, we’re gonna fight to gain even MORE than Roe!

Then, I walked into the store and was greeted by a small elderly woman. When I asked her where I may find what I was looking for, she said, “over there,” and gestured behind her to the entirety of Walmart.

As I walked through a maze of pool toys and $5.88 cutoff shirts with bald eagles on them, it hit me.

The car in the lot didn’t mean, “We won’t stop at reinstating Roe.” It meant “We’re gonna repeal even more shit because we are misinformed by our priests and neighbors and the internet and we love to hate. We will hip check you at the mall and make you spill your slurpee all over yourself. We will kick small dogs when you or Jesus are not looking.”

Or something like that felt like that.

I suddenly felt so angry (because, duh) and so sad that I had assumed the best in people and realized it was ultimately a fantasy. I gave up on the maze and marched right back to my blazing hot car and cried. Sorry, Dolores.

Maybe my Hallmark movie reel and my optimism for others can be trusted, or maybe it can’t. Maybe I should keep looking for Jolly Ranchers, or maybe I should just stick to donating and praying to the only god I believe in: Michelle Obama.

The world is a hard place right now and America seems like it’s racing to win “most authoritarian democracy.” It’s frightening and disheartening and exhausting. It’s all too reminiscent of my upbringing with an abusive parent. My ears feel like they’re constantly ringing because the pressure in my being is too much to contain.

Now that I think of it, I should have bought some gosh darn candy for myself.

I’m not sure how to wrap this one up in a pretty bow. I’m not sure if I’ll find Jolly Ranchers or if I’ll have the courage to kill my neighbor with kindness in the hopes that he won’t kill me with indifference or worse, intention.

But I do know that I will continue to go into coffee shops that vibrate with love and humanity and smell like blueberry scones, literally and metaphorically. I will recognize the value of community, that it’s all we have and that it’s meant to be treasured, and I’ll recognize my role in it.

I’ll keep showing up (after some naps and car crying, no doubt). I’ll keep putting my signature where it counts and I’ll keep trying my darn best to answer hate with love, or at least with hard candies.

Yours,

Emily Rose // Miss Magnolia