the canary, act two
How unchecked emotional abuse can blossom when marginalization is powerful social currency.
Act one may be found here:
“The narcissist is a master of manipulation. To maintain the illusion of power over you, they employ the use of third parties to gaslight you, manipulate you, and to bully you. They try to groom your friends, family, children, spouse, or intimate partner from the moment they meet them.” -Tracy Malone
What does it look like to continually turn a blind eye to harmful behavior?
Who gets permission to be abusive?
What keeps otherwise decent people from speaking up?
Disclaimer: I am doing my best to be delicate with the publishing of this experience. What’s valuable here, in my opinion, is how cultural conditions allowed for repeated emotional and online abuse to persist.
Around the time of our move, I’d accepted an unpaid position writing for a local mom’s collective. The call for writers featured a biracial woman writing cheerily at a computer. Too nervous to initially apply, Seth had persuaded me, reminding me the day my application was due to turn it in. “Mama, you’re a good writer,” he told me, “you should do this.” I was surprised and excited when I was accepted. I shared a post on Facebook, linking to my first published piece.
A comment came in nearly immediately, from a person I didn’t know, a friend of Tina’s, “too bad this collective is racist!” I was surprised and spent the next week getting to the bottom of the issue. It was a complicated, overly detailed story that didn’t place any onus on the editors. In the time I took trying to figure this out, writing a detailed letter to the founder and collective staff, Tina was messaging me constantly. Later, I recognized that Tina had been behind her friend’s comment. She resented the opportunity I had and wanted to spoil it by claiming it was a racist group of writers. It would become a tactic I’d eventually watch her repeat. She framed it this way: I had permission to write for the collective, but accepting was a misstep.
2018 Minneapolis was reeling after the death of Philando Castile and the exoneration of his killers. Every one of my peers was horrified and bent out of shape over any perceived issue around race. People were attending marches and protests, and arguments were erupting daily on Facebook. When these debates escalated, people would threaten to screenshot statements to bosses. Growing up black biracial, I’d been taught that as someone who hadn’t endured much hardship or any poverty that I owed help to people less fortunate, at any cost. I’m not sure if this messaging was familial or environmental, but I knew my place and the role I was expected to play.
One afternoon a photographer friend, who had also attended the fourth of July party, put out a model request for her studio. Tina jumped at the call, but the photographer chose someone else. In response to the disappointment of not receiving a free session, Tina chose to slander the photographer as racist. Within a few hours multiple comments and poor reviews flooded onto my friend’s work page. Then she received rape threats. She was understandably distraught. I inserted myself and spoke to Tina. After calming her down, she agreed to remove the dishonest one-star reviews. While her behavior was disordered, I deeply understood Tina’s desire and longing for an experience she’d otherwise not have access to. Years earlier I’d worked as an in-hospital newborn photographer, and we were paid by commission. Of course, you knew who would likely buy the $299 digital download, but because the session was advertised as free, people booked sessions without any intention of ever purchasing the photographs. Lifestyle photography is a luxury good, an experience reserved usually for the upper middle class. Even without the product, these families still wanted the experience of having a photo session.
The pandemic came and with it our world became small. Certain relationships in my life strained. I had two baby boys back-to-back, one in 2020 and another in 2021. I was married, I wasn’t lower income anymore, I’d grown out my side shave haircut, and I was feeling suspicious of the BLM movement. I hadn’t heard much from Tina, but then she began posting more frequently on Instagram, a platform I had all but abandoned Facebook for. Tina started interacting with me there and sending me videos on Marco Polo. I let down my guard a bit. I had some conversations I'm not proud of. I thought I could trust Tina. I felt resolved to maintain a connection, to come alongside this person.
Tina’s presence on Instagram sometimes involved her replicating images I’d taken. Sometimes her writing would sound like my voice, too. She began dressing her children that way I dressed mine. I wasn’t offended, I found it endearing. My white lefty friends, who I was feeling more and more at odds with ate up Tina’s presence. I was falling out of their favor by questioning progressive politics, leaving the city, being Catholic, and loving homemaking. One morning in the wee hours of nursing my son a message from Tina came in. It included screen shots from a conversation between her and another woman, about me. It wasn’t charitable, and I was hurt.
In early 2022, Tina told me that she was pregnant, with a new boyfriend this time. Another sixty something year old white man. I was worried for her, but she seemed happy. I approached Seth about hosting a baby shower for her. He sighed and rolled his eyes, reluctantly conceding. “I mean we are supposed to be pro-life,” I argued, “this is what it means to be pro-life!” Immediately I felt a weight of regret. I backed out of hosting the shower.
Around that time Tina had shared with me a pattern of self-destructive behavior. Seth told me I needed to confront her about it. “What she’s doing is wrong. You need to say something.” I felt confident after the photography review issue that she’d listen to me. I felt like I could give her some tough love. It backfired. In my desire to rescue, I had become the fool.
The fallout began almost immediately. Tina started referencing me in Stories as a mommy influencer married to a racist who was “stealing her peace.” This was mere weeks after she’d shared a glowing post visiting my home with her children. I had made her tomato orzo soup, spooning leftovers into a mason jar for her to take home. She wanted me to connect Seth with her boyfriend. But, according to Tina’s Stories she had grown repulsed by us after having a conversation about politics with Seth way back at that fourth of July party, three years ago. Others didn’t, but I knew that timeline couldn’t add up. If we were such awful people why had she continued to befriend me for years after the party? The words of another mutual person haunted me, “you’re not a person to Tina, you’re a Pinterest board.”
I quickly unfollowed and considered blocking, but again felt reservation. Why? I think at this point I knew the rails were off and I needed to diffuse as much as possible.
Unfortunately, Tina’s fury hadn’t yet reached a fever pitch.