Power and how to use it with kindness
Why we should be more firm in our response to mean people
I found Biscuit in tears this morning. I knew he’d had a visit from his old schoolteacher and had been so excited to show her all the books he’d hoarded and how carefully he’d catalogued them. I’d been looking forward to hearing all about it as I arrived at The Teacup and I was so surprised to find him sobbing into a Rich Tea biscuit.
“What happened?” I asked him, hurrying to pick him up and hug him.
“She…” He sobbed. “She said… she said she wouldn’t come and look at my books because the hallway was too dusty.” He revealed and I crinkled my brow in confusion.
“Our hallway?” I verified. “The one I just walked through.”
“Yes.” He answered in a little voice. “She said it was unhygienic.” Now, dear reader, you may already know from your visits, and I will admit it freely, I am not the tidiest of people. Books are put down wherever I happen to be and they stay there until a tiny, biscuity dragon decides to put them where they belong. I am forever losing things. And yes, cake crumbs are dropped sometimes as we wander around the house, but this was a bit much. But I also do hoover and clean on a regular enough basis to stop it from becoming a health hazard.
“Unhygienic?” I repeated, feeling stung by it. “It’s a little dusty but it’s not dirty!”
“I felt so ashamed!” Biscuit wailed and buried his snout into my elbow to sob. “She made me get a duster and sweep before she’d come inside.”
“Did she?!” I demanded because the initial sting was quickly becoming absolute fury. “How dare she!” Biscuit peeked at me, lifting his little snout cautiously.
“I really wanted to impress her.” He noted. “To show her how well I’d learned all my lessons.”
“And were any of the things she taught you related to your cleaning abilities?” I asked and Biscuit shook his little head. “Then she didn’t need to make comments about it. Was she at least impressed with what you’ve done?” Biscuit sniffled and then shook his little head and pressed his nose into my elbow again.
“She said it was okay and she could see I’d tried but it wasn’t very impressive.” He mumbled through the fabric of my sleeve.
“What a horrible woman.” I commented, astonished and angered that anyone could look at the cosy little library Biscuit had lovingly created and fail to value it.
“And then, as she was leaving,” He went on. “She said she hadn’t sat down because she was worried there might be fleas in the cushions.”
“Oh! That’s it!” I exclaimed, too angry to be rational. “I am going to send her a very strongly worded letter to tell her exactly what I think of her! Where does she live?” Biscuit hurriedly shook his head and flapped his little claws at me urgently.
“No! She’s my old teacher, she’s right!” Biscuit insisted. I picked him up and set him on a shelf at eye level so that he could see that I was very serious.
“No.” I corrected firmly. “She’s your old teacher, so she still holds power for you, and she should have behaved better.”
“But she knows her stuff.” Biscuit countered but it only made me shake my head.
“Maybe so.” I allowed. “Maybe she does know everything there is to know about hoarding things and maybe she is objectively correct that your hoard doesn’t meet the academic criteria for ‘impressive’ but she still had choice over how she told you about it.”
“She shouldn’t lie.” Biscuit noted, pushing out his lower lip a little and making a trail of smoke curl up towards the ceiling.
“She didn’t have to lie.” I waved the idea aside. “She just had to be kind. She could have said ‘I can see that you’ve worked hard and you’ve made a really good start. Here are some ideas for where you could go next’. Or she could have said ‘it’s a really sweet and cosy little hoard. What do you want to do with it?’ Or she could have said ‘Hoards are lovely things to build, can I help with yours?’. But she chose to make a mean comment and that makes her a mean person.” Biscuit gasped at that. I gave him a look that told him I’d actually intended to use much worse words.
“She was so disgusted by our house.” He added, his voice full of pain. “And I love our little home. It was humiliating.”
“Yes.” I concurred at once. “She had no cause to be so unkind. And particularly once you were already disappointed by her opinion of your hoard. It’s like she deliberately wanted to hurt you.”
“Why would she want that?” Biscuit wondered, devastated to think it. And I sighed. It was such a big thing to try to explain.
“Some people just do.” I shrugged. “Some people are hurting and they find that hurting other people helps them feel better. Some people are jealous and can’t find it in them to give praise for things. Some people have only ever been treated that way and so they don’t know any better.”
“That all sounds sad.” Biscuit curled his tail around his little feet and closed his wings behind his back. “Shouldn’t we do something to help them?”
“Yes, probably.” I allowed but it was reluctant because I was still very cross at this awful dragon-woman. “But it’s not an excuse for treating other people badly. We can understand the cause and still not accept being treated badly ourselves.”
“But we shouldn’t treat other people badly in return or we’re just going to perpetuate it all.” Biscuit countered and I narrowed my eyes at him.
“That’s very reasonable of you.” I told him. “So you’re saying you think I shouldn’t go around to her place and mix up all the labels on her pantry jars?” He gave a little giggle.
“No, you shouldn’t.” He said and then grinned. “But I love you for offering but if people who are mean are mean becuase they’ve got difficult things happening for them then we should be kinder.” I shrugged.
“The thing is, Biscuit.” I told him quietly. “Sometimes, very occasionally, people are mean because they’re just twits. If I could lay down any one commandment for mankind and it would be the law that we all live by, it would be this one: Don’t be a twit.” Biscuit gasped, shocked by my use of language.
“But isn’t that quite a subjective thing to decide?” He wondered and I chuckled.
“Yes but I would also make it the law that I get to decide what constitutes being a twit.” I assured him. “And your old teacher was being a colossal twit.”
“Because she didn’t like our dust?” Biscuit asked and I shook my head.
“No, she doesn’t have to like our dust.” I conceded grudgingly because there’s nothing wrong with a little bit of dust! It gives a bookshelf character and lets you see which books get used most often. “But, instead of quietly explaining that she found dust difficult and asking for help with that, she chose to wield her power over you to make you feel small and unimportant. That’s not okay.”
“It really hurt.” Biscuit confided and I rubbed the top of his little head.
“I’m sure it did.” I assured him. “It hurt me too. She threw an insult at our home. It may not be perfect but it’s ours and we hadn’t asked for feedback from her.”
“Maybe she thought she was being helpful.” Biscuit suggested, looking up at me hopefully.
“I think that’s called ‘sticking your nose in’.” I replied sourly. “To be helpful, you have to be sure that what you’re doing is wanted. Look at all the toddlers out there who want to be helpful while their carers are cooking or cleaning. They tend not to be helpful at all! If she had wanted to be helpful, she might have said something like ‘I can see that your hoard needs a lot of upkeep, I’d really enjoy working with you on that’ and then picked up a duster herself.”
“I suppose so.” Biscuit acknowledged, biting the inside of his cheek. “She was a bit… judgemental.” He added and then covered his mouth with his paw, shocked by his own bravery.
“Indeed.” I approved. “The only person she was trying to help was herself and she chose to do it by saying unkind things to you in a way that suggested you were entirely to blame. That’s not the way of kind people, that’s the way of twits.”
“Should I ask her to say sorry?” Biscuit asked, getting up and stretching out his wings.
“I think you could, if you feel up to it.” I concurred.
“Will you help me find kind words to use to ask her with?” He requested but I shook my head. “Why not?”
“Because I don’t have any kind words to give to her at the moment.” I revealed and Biscuit gave my arm a comforting pat. “And I’ll be busy, I’m afraid.”
“Doing what?” Biscuit was distracted by this statement.
“Nothing important.” I turned away and headed back to the kitchen. “By the way, Biscuit. Do you have your old teacher’s address?”
“Yes, of course.” Biscuit flapped through the air behind me. “I got it from my mum. That’s how I sent her the invitation to visit.”
“Oh Good.” I grinned. “And, just out of curiosity, does your mother know about all this?”
“No, not yet.” Biscuit quirked his head in curiosity at my questions.
“Oh! Then maybe I’ll just pop round and let her know.” I hinted, feeling a less-than-kind smile spread across my face. “She’s still a four-foot, fire-breathing, scaly ball of menopausal rage, is she?”
“Well, she hasn’t changed since you saw her yesterday.” Biscuit answered cautiously. I grinned.
“Yes, I really think your mother ought to know what’s happened.” I chuckled darkly.
“I thought you said the only law that mattered was: don’t be a twit!” Biscuit remonstrated. “Wouldn’t it be wrong to send my mum after her?” I shrugged.
“But I get to decide who’s being a twit.” I reminded him. “And I would never call your mum a twit. She’s much too scary!” Biscuit chuckled and I set the kettle on to boil again. We haven’t told his mum about it, as it happens, but I’m keeping it in my back pocket in case his old teacher ever pops round again.
