Ya Gotta Tell ’em

Pakala. Lying on my board on a small day, waiting for set waves. A stand-up paddle boarder startles me, swiftly passing on my immediate left. He’s gone before I can say anything, and I bob in his wake.

Another SUPer quickly paddles after him, yelling in Pidgin, “No do that! Respect da surfers! Whatchu problem, eh?” My champion!

The guy apologizes to her and me, chastened. My heroine glides over and says adamantly, “Ya gotta tell ’em.” She is right, and I thank her.

My brother has a habit of spewing ugly words. Because he is younger, I’ve tolerated this behavior for decades, making excuses for him, letting it slide. This has served me not at all, and it probably doesn’t serve him either. Yesterday I turned on the phone, and yep, another rant from the sibling.

Visceral response: full body flush, shaking, shallow breathing. My neck felt as if something was pressing on it. Yeah: my words. Got to respond!

Called and roared, “Don’t you ever talk to me that way again, or we are done! Do you hear me?”

Hung up, because it wasn’t a dialog. While I was at it, I yelled at a neighbor for idling his pickup under my windows — again!

It takes a lot to get me to this point. I write notes. I calmly explain the situation. I listen. But tolerating disrespect is over. I’m not having it anymore.