If you don’t like the image of yourself in the mirror, then you aren’t going to like me going to like you.
The court will recall that this trial is ongoing.
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Statement of Record– Disrepair Service
I was racing with an organized amateur cycling team in Kentucky when the head mechanic of our shop sponsor suggested getting me a job there. They said a female presence would be great for business.
They insisted.
They were exuberant, supportive, and witty at races and practices. They were the first point-of-contact when any of us needed parts, advice, or a fix. They remembered my name was spelled with a ‘G.’ They recognized my potential, and thought I’d be a good fit.
Once I was hired, they rarely ever said my name correctly again.
They nicknamed me “Gina” (hard ‘I’), and regularly addressed me as “Snatch.”
No can do, mate.
I quickly requested that they just call me Genna, or ‘G.’ They flinched a little.
“I was just playing with you,” they said, but obliged anyway. Our rapport seemed to return to normal.
One day, I went into work with a finely-striped, red, white, and blue shirt. They said “You’re patriotic today.” They would regularly comment on my clothing choices and accessories in a way that was… specific.
They are paying a lot of attention to me.
I still have that shirt, and never wear it without remembering this minor interaction.
Inevitably, their jokes continued. I started to vocalize this pattern to everyone else in the shop. Most of them said “Yeah, they’re like that.”
Another said “Yeah… they’re like that.” This person and I soon learned that we could communicate through eye-contact alone. I noticed the head mechanic’s behavior would escalate when this person was gone. After this mirror, I asked the owner to meet in confidence, and explained my discomfort with the head mechanic’s behavior. “I’ve already told them myself that I don’t like this kind of “humor,” I said.
“I’ll talk to them,” they assured me.
The behavior continued over the days to follow, so I went to the office again.
“I don’t know what happened to you in your past, but you need to work on not being so sensitive,” the owner said.
Irrelevant.
One day, the head mechanic walked from the repair area to the retail store, where I was, with a box labelled with the ‘Spank’ brand-name. They wrote “dat ass” underneath it, and presented it in front of me… and a customer.
Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, take a moment to chuckle, gag, or whatever else that incites.
That’s funny on it’s surface, but not in its purpose.
I immediately walked back into the owner’s office with no more reservation.
“If there are not going to be consequences for their behavior, then I need to leave,” I announced.
“Okay,” they said, staring blankly at me.
That’s… it?
And so, the evening after I walked out, I made a Facebook post outlining the experience I had behind the scenes while the world went on expressing appreciation for “friendly support and good deals” out the front. The owner called me and left a voicemail telling me to take the post down,
and the head mechanic sent me a long, incoherent text threatening to kill themselves.
I call a witness to the stand.
For weeks, at least, another person in the local bike community sent me various posts through Instagram DM. They trended either thought-provoking, or funny. But, they were only posts, not actual messages, and there were no recurrent themes or patterns between them that I could determine. I ignored them.
You’re going to have to tell me why you’re here.
It continued. Sporadically, and quietly. It didn’t increase, nor taper.
One evening, I finally replied out of sheer lonliness. And without much ado, they began to explain that they had heard about my falling out with that shop. They also told me that this head mechanic had called other shops in the area in the aftermath, warning them all not to hire me. I caused drama.
And this person just… didn’t buy it.
They sent me a document they had found. A record.
A criminal record. One count of domestic assault, another of impersonating a peace officer. They were on parole.
I got word that this mechanic incurred a divorce, lost custody of their young child, and moved to Alaska in the years to follow.
The individual who believed me is now one of the most important people in my life.
Final observation: Combustible material incorrectly labelled as irritant. Please avoid the area.
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Final Statement of Record: A Quandary
Previously submitted documentation- If You Can’t Say Something Honest
For those members of the jury who were not present for prior testimony:
This individual reached out to me about this blog as a resonant reader. We developed a rapid connection, but through admission delayed until after I began to ask questions, I came to learn this person was perusing divorce but still living with their spouse. Throughout my life I had learned to anticipate “the catch” when finding a job opportunity, love interest, or means of assistance that seemed too good to be true. I noticed a subtle side-stepping of boundaries, omission where words should have provided clarity, and an enthusiasm that did not match the realism of the situation.
I told them I was no longer willing to participate, and wished them well.
The silence to follow didn’t sit the way it usually does.
As I’ve demonstrated, I will walk away. I don’t fight, I don’t defend, and I don’t refute. I let people show me who they are, and collect my evidence over time. If something doesn’t sit right, I don’t respond right away- I just start watching.
The body knows it first. I trust it, so when I felt it start to shut this person out, I didn’t interrogate it any further.
But oh, how I interrogated me.
In these circumstances, the stages of detaching are grief, but also…
satisfaction. I’ve stood up for myself even at a cost.
I didn’t get either this time. Actually, I received this soft- featherlike tap on my shoulder that suggested that the cost here might not be just temporary discomfort.
They didn’t intend to hurt me.
Stay with me. This isn’t enough.
But I asked if they would be open to a phone call. They said yes. I asked when. They said as soon as possible.
During that call, any emphasis on “intent” I made certain to steer back to “impact.” And while we were examining that together, they told me they felt “burned at the stake,” by what I wrote about them, but also,
“You’re right.”
Not submissively. Not to please me. It was a realization of effect.
They proceeded to open up to me, sincerely rather than performatively (the difference here can be heard), about everything they were trying to manage all at once while feeling trapped. Decisions cause ripples. Honesty is not a sterile procedure no matter how hard I have tried to make it one.
They said “You’re intense, so intense,” but also
I still want to be close to this.
Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, most people run from me. They fight, tell me I’m the problem, or disappear, all for using my words to narrate their behavior back to them. They rarely stay long enough to understand that on the other side of the scale is a quieter humanity that just wants to not be lied to anymore.
But here on the phone was not another person who was trying to hide themselves, but was weighing the cost of exposure in a period of major overwhelm and overlooking the impact of omission entirely.
I want to allow people to be different from those I have known.
And so, I walked back. Not with erasure of the problem, but with agency over what I was willing to accept circumstantially. I rendered verdict because I was uncomfortable with things that were absolute red flags, but then I asked me “why?”
And I asked them, “why?”
And the fog lifted.
Protection, Your Honor.
Final observation: Ongoing.
But, there’s one more thing.
There’s someone in the jury who knows something.
Is it you?
Will you take the stand?
Will you look yourself in the eyes?
And will you lower your shield?
Or will you raise your sword?
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I rest my case.
I will the machine. 