The Wagging Finger

Strawberries and whipped cream in a transparent blue bowl from Chinatown. Yesterday we got hit with a whole lot of snow here, and I didn’t feel like going out. I imagined having to furrow my way in the snow like a mole - moles do furrow, don’t they? The snow made me long for summer and strawberries spell summer for me like nothing else. My husband had picked up the berries the day before, and after scavenging the fridge for heavy cream, I enjoyed this luxurious summery breakfast today in spite of the winter outside.

Nothing can reduce me to the feelings of a small, frightened child more than having someone wag their finger in my face. It makes me feel like I’m being caught red-handed doing something practically illegal. Logically this feeling cannot be explained. I’m well over the age of 21; I’ve done nothing criminal in my life, nothing illegal. I’m not a thief, I don’t embezzle money, and I am not a spy, nor a killer or a robber. Yet, when the wagging finger comes my way, it smarts like I’ve been found with ten pounds of cocaine in my possession, facing a ten-year long prison sentence. Or whatever you get when you’re found with ten pounds of cocaine.

Let me illustrate the wagging finger.

An employer I once had, told me, on my first day at work, that if I couldn’t master a particular computer program in editorial design “right away” then I should go look for a job at McDonalds. I’d been hired, presumably, for my writing skills not as an editorial designer, and I ought to have reminded him of that. But there’s something with the wagging finger that takes you by surprise and leaves you speechless. The French have a pretty name for it: “esprit d’escalier”.

Another employer used to say this:

“Little darling…”

Or:

“Oh, no, no, sweetheart…”

Both of these condescending expressions were followed by a bitter spew of bile telling you, in so many words, how horribly wrong you were. You had better have a pack of Kleenex close by.

Yet another employer loved to set traps. While interviewing me for a position, he let his gaze sweep out the window and alight on the flagpole where the Swedish flag was proudly flying.

“Hmm,” he said. “I wonder why the flag’s flying.”

And in a stupid effort to score points, I echoed:
“Yes, I wonder.”
Which is when the trap effectively closed on me.

“Don’t you know it’s the Gustavus Adolphus Day?”

Bam! Executed as quickly as a slap in the face, his clever rejoinder left me embarrassed, exposed, hurt, and frightened.

In Swedish there’s something called a “tjuvnyp”. Literally, it translates as “thief’s pinch” (the “thief” part refers to the underhanded way in which the pinch is being executed). A “tjuvnyp” is a particularly hostile serving of nastiness, like a step above the wagging finger. But the result is the same: The person being pinched is reduced and diminished. And if you try to defend yourself, you risk being called “overly sensitive”. Hence you’re stuck between a rock and a hard place.

Make no mistake about it, the wagging finger or the “tjuvnyp”, the warning from above (be it a supervisor or an employer or whomever believe they have some sort of power over you) is designed with only one thing in mind: To hurt like nothing else.

In my experience, an older male in a superior position usually, but not always, delivers the wagging finger or the “tjuvnyp”. However, the flick of a female tongue from one who shares my age and status, can burn like fire too.

So what do you do then, when you’re being on the receiving end of all this?

Well, here’s what you should NOT do:

1. Don’t fight back. No matter how good it feels to deliver an equally hurtful blow, remember that this is what your enemy secretly wants from you. It shows him or her that you took the bait, and it shows how hurt you are. Do. Not. Fall. For. It. Instead make it a game to rise above it.

2. Don’t become a doormat. Do not let this kind of behavior continue. Ever. Never let anyone (man, woman, or child) boss you around.

And here is what you do do:

Love them! Yes! Embrace those sad suckers with love and compassion. Let them swim in the whipped cream that is your tenderness. Give them the love their mothers refused them as infants and toddlers, which led them to the vileness in which they currently stew. Smile sweetly and say nothing. Let silence be your weapon of choice. By the way, I’m not at all being sarcastic here. You can also buy them a box of chocolates or a cup of coffee even when they don’t ask you for it. Give it to them and say:
“I thought you might need this today.”

And if you pray, do as in Matthew 5:44: “(…) love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you.”

Age-old advice that still works like a charm.