Writing for Grace
and for a sliver of revenge
There’s a scene in A Cinderella Story where Sam (Hilary Duff) walks into the boy’s locker room and confronts Austin (Chad Michael Murray) after he cowered and allowed for her to be humiliated because of him in front of everyone at the pep rally. She lets him have it in the now famous, scathing words, “… because waiting for you is like waiting for rain in this drought, useless and disappointing.” Mic dropped. She walks out of there knowing she’s already been vindicated.
I watched a ton of these teen rom-coms growing up and they all had versions of this moment, where the girl who has been scorned gets the chance to look the culprit in the eyes and tell him that she thought he was better than this but he disappointed her, and now he can watch her walk away head held high.
The intent seemed to be half vengeful, half absolving. And I was led to believe that when I grew up, when the stakes were high enough, when someone’s really done me wrong, I’d get my moment. But in adult life, the moment rarely calls for declarations of disappointment or words as sharp as knives showing the other person how small and pathetic they’ve been. As adults, what we’re supposed to do in these moments is be the bigger person and lead with empathy instead. Or be the person who can walk away not saying a single word and leaving them wondering what they did to lose you. I suppose that’s the ultimate power move, and probably the most gracious act of self respect.
But that’s never been my style.
There’s a Taylor Swift lyric I resonate with from the song My Tears Ricochet that goes, “I didn’t have it in myself to go with grace, and you’re the hero flying around saving face.” The song is allegedly about the owner of her former record label who sold her masters to the only person she did not want them sold to, Scooter Braun. And the story goes that Braun deliberately, on multiple occasions, tried to block her from performing her own songs. I’m a new Swifite so forgive me if I’m misrepresenting the lore. The point is, she ends up re-recording most of her discography, essential making Braun’s $140 million newly acquired asset worthless and unleashing her fandom’s wrath on all who were involved in the saga. The song ends with, “And so the battleships will sink beneath the waves. You had to kill me, but it killed you just the same…And you're cursing my name, wishing I stayed, look at how my tears ricochet.”
Until this year, I’d never had it in me to go with grace. Ask my manager at Daffy’s, a fashion retailer which doesn’t exist anymore but where I worked as a sales associate during the summer of 2008. My cousin and I had gotten the job at the same time and we were excited to be working together. But on our first day, we were separated immediately after the manager learned that we were related. She was afraid we’d talk too much and get distracted. My cousin, Sarah, was sent to women’s fashion, I to the windowless bottom level of kids fashion. And so began our summer of 12-hour dreadful days spent in what felt like a bolted up metal box with no air. Early on, I was told by a seasoned coworker that the only way I’d get through the long days was to do everything in slow motion but make it appear like I was being efficient. “Why work in such a rush,” she’d tell me. “The only reward you get for finishing work is more work.” I worked in retail for a decade after this job and I can confirm that this was solid advice. But I was 18, I was ambitious and thirsty for employer validation. So I tried to do a good job. I cleaned up and quickly brought back clothing from the fitting rooms, I diligently folded t-shirts and laid them on top of each other making sure the corners lined up, I mopped and sanitized the floor when a kid peed in the toys section, I regularly walked the floor picking up half-empty coffee cups and soda cans left on random shelves. It was hard work and my feet were blistered and throbbing with pain every day going home.
Sarah and I intended to keep the job for the full summer, and if it wasn’t for our manager, we would have pushed through. I learned quickly that my manager, Giselle (not her real name, I don’t remember her real name) was the type of person with such a lack of self awareness reserved for women we’d now call Karen. On my first day, she handed me a lanyard with a name tag that said Heather (not my name). I brought it to her attention and she told me that it was “her bad” but she wasn’t going to print me a new one. I wasn’t allowed to ever sit down, even for one second when there were no customers on my floor and the entire place was sparkling clean. I had to always find something to do even if that meant making up a fake task to make myself appear productive. I wasn’t allowed to use the bathroom except for on my break (I think that’s illegal.) When I begged her to let me go upstairs and buy new shoes on a day where the shoes I came into work with were causing my feet to bleed, she told me that if I did that, I could go home for the rest of the day. She said this despite my coworker reassuring her that she’d happily stay back a few extra minutes to cover me.
On a particularly beautiful day during our lunch break in that seating area at Herald Square, Sarah and I decided on a whim that our feet hurt too much, that our friends were having too much fun of a summer without us, that our dignities were more important than $7.25 an hour. We would quit. But we wouldn’t just quit. We were going to make an announcement of our quitting. We marched back into the store’s employee room, an hour late. We were in luck because Giselle happened to be there too, and there was a large enough crowd of employees going in and out that we’d be able to make a good show. When she asked us why we were coming back so late from lunch, we threw our lanyards on the ground, declaring that we quit and the reason we were quitting was the she was a cruel, cruel woman. And good luck finding anyone as hardworking as we were.
It was exhilarating. And the best part? I was really good at it. I’d been rehearsing this fake fight scenario in my head for weeks. And when the time came, I wasn’t shaken up like I thought I would be. I was firm and I was confident and I looked her right in the eyes. And when I walked away, I made sure I flipped my long dark hair back in her direction. Very theatrical.
In Arabic, there’s this word عتاب (etab) that Google translates to reproach or admonition. That’s not quite right, though. Etab is telling someone how they’ve wronged you by throwing it all out there—the hurt, the rage— with the hope that you’ve now left the door open for them to make it right. In A Cinderella Story, when Sam was giving Austin her declaration of disappointment, she started off first by telling him that she saw the potential in him, she saw what others couldn’t see. She had faith in him and that’s why the hurt was so deep.
At the end of movie, during the final football game, Austin runs off the field and up to the bleachers towards Sam. “Austin, what are you doing?” she asks him. “Something I should’ve done a long time ago.” He kisses her in front of everyone and the rain comes pouring down. He finally lived up to her expectation of him, ending the drought and sending shivers down the spine of every teenage girl who’s watched this scene.
But this too is a myth movies made me believe, that people come back in such a redeeming way when they understand what they’ve done, that they don’t also have their own version of the story worthy of etab. Or at the very least, that what you get for laying it all bare is a reclamation of your part of the story. I think that’s why so many girls and women feel strongly about Taylor Swift’s lyrics. She gives them the chance to belt out all the reasons they’ve been victimized by someone. And from where we stand, she seems to always win. She gets the final word. But I also wonder: after spilling it all out and telling the receiving end that they’re the smallest person who ever lived—after the dust settles—why does it never feel as good as it should?
A few years ago, Sarah and I were recounting the quitting Daffy’s story and she reminded me of a piece that had completely dropped from my memory. A week after we made a show taking our lanyards off and walking out of the building for good, we had to go back to pick up our final checks. It was Giselle who was at the desk to hand them to us and to our disappointment, she didn’t seem to be an ounce sorry for how she treated us. It was us who felt like fools for how we acted. And it was us who felt guilty for what we said in rage. I thought I remembered this story so well. It had always been seminal in my understanding of how I acted in relationships. “I’m the type of person who is patient and kind but when I’m done, I’m really done. And you’ll see another side.” I said this with a sense of pride. But it misses the point.
Earlier this year, I found out that a friend I considered close had deliberately hid from me big life-changing, exciting news (I won’t say what type of news. I’m trying to be a bigger person here.) I was hurt and I came to the conclusion that she thought I’d be jealous of her or give her the evil eye, though it’s also likely that she did not think I was someone who needed to be told, that our relationship didn’t warrant that level of secret sharing. But this wasn’t secret-type news, this was the sort of news you’d share with even an acquaintance and so not even accidentally letting it drop in the middle of a conversation was a decision. What hurt me most though is that just a few months earlier, she felt comfortable enough to share sad news, and I was someone whose shoulder she cried on. I felt bad for myself. Why was I used when you needed to vent but I couldn’t be invited into your joy?
It crossed my mind to say, “The reason you didn’t tell me is because you assumed I’m as untrustworthy as you are.” Several people had warned me in the past that she’d talked about me behind my back. Or I could say something like, “You know those people you trusted so dearly with this news? Well they’re the ones that ran their mouths so it turns out you’re a bad judge of character after all.” But I didn’t have it in my heart to say any of those things. Because blowing up is what you do when you expect someone to fight for you. Inside the proclamation is a hope that the words move them enough to remember that they care. And so they come running to you, begging to be forgiven, and it would be easier for you to forgive because you’ve just said regretful things too. It could now be a wash.
When you realize that maybe it was you who misinterpreted someone as having cared about you when they never did. And it was you who let things go you never should have, you who allowed your boundaries to get crossed and made excuses for it, in this case, there’s no justice to seek. Letting them have it and seeing them realize you’ve always known who they were reveals that it was only you who betrayed yourself by keeping them in your life for so long.