The Pretentious Douchebag, or, How I Was Bullied At the Age of 25

So, a couple of days ago I met a bully.

The afternoon started off well. A pretty girl was chatting me up on the King streetcar. She asked about the book I was reading (Kraken, by China Miéville.) It was a pleasant diversion, and a pick-me-up – not every day a perfect stranger engages you in small talk. Certainly not in Toronto. I had to transfer to a different streetcar, so I said my goodbyes and arrived at the College streetcar platform with a spring in my step, and cracked open my book again.

“What’re you reading there?” This, from a skinny, scruffy blond fellow. I assume by his dress, his youth, and our location a student at Univerisity of Toronto.

I held the book up and told him the title.

“What’s it about?”

I told him the story thus far – a giant squid disappears from the Darwin Centre in London, which sets of an investigation into apocalyptic squid-cults and mysterious, murderous magicians.

“Oh, so what, is it magical realism?” the stranger asked me doubtfully.

“No,” I replied. “More like straight-up urban fantasy.”

“Ah.” Understanding lit up his features, along with the first hint of a condescending smile. “So it’s lowbrow.”

Confusion. Hurt. Followed by defensiveness. Tamped down by rationality. I was going to give him the benefit of the doubt. “What do you mean by that?” I asked politely. I was unconsciously holding the book to my chest.

“You know. Lowbrow. Nothing wrong with that. I like a little lowbrow now and then.” Said with the same tone as someone who likes a little dogshit in their icecream.

“Well, I don’t – why do you say it’s lowbrow?”

“Why don’t you read something better, more highbrow? Like Gabriel Garcia Marquez?” he countered.

“Marquez isn’t really my thing.” I answered. Anger, a kettle on the boil in my guts. “Why do you think this is lowbrow?”

“Hey,” he said by way of kind-of apology, “Lowbrow’s not a bad thing.”

“It kind of –“

“When was it written?” he interrupted. Smug. So fucking smug.

I had no idea what he was getting at, except that this was another joke being had at my expense.“Mid two-thousands.”

“Ah, see that’s how I know it’s bad. Nothing good’s been written in the magic realism genre in seventy years.”

I can’t recall exactly what I said, to be honest, only that I know it was angry and insulting and it caught the fucker off guard. He didn’t seem to get why I was so upset. Or at least that was how he acted. Then the smug, self-satisfied smirk returned. He pointed to the cover of my book, which I was now clutching protectively to my chest.

“It says international bestseller on it? That’s how you know it’s lowbrow.” All triumph.

“So if people like something, if something’s popular, it must not be any good?” I asked, bewilderment battling it out with the simmering anger.

“Yeah, pretty much,” he shrugged.

This is when I snapped. “Why did you even start a conversation with me?” I asked. “You’ve never even met me! Do you just like to pick fights with people? Did you just want to pick a fight with me?”

“Yeah,” he shrugged. “I was bored.” I couldn’t believe it. I was actually struck speechless. I was so angry, so hurt, so humiliated (somehow) that I turned on my heel and walked the rest of the way home. No way was I going to spend a whole streetcar ride with this asshole.

On the long walk home, I thought of all the cutting, clever, savage, witty and incisive and cruel things I should have said. All the while my fury and my shame and my hurt roiling within me. My good mood from the pretty girl? Vanished. My whole evening ruined. And I realized on that walk, that this is what it felt like to be bullied, when I was in middle school. To be made fun of, to have something I liked put down, by some tool who didn’t even know me, for no discernable reason at all.

So here’s what I wanted to say to that condescending elitist hipster douchebag: FUCK YOU.

First up: Lowbrow and highbrow are bullshit terms that you and elitist douchebag pricks like you use to ghettoize genre fiction, to separate what you deem worthy from everything else so you can feel good about being a gatekeeper of ‘worthy literature.’ You might be surprised to learn that I have read Marquez, and simply found him not to be my cup of tea. I would be shocked to learn that you had read anything by Gaiman, or Heinlein, or Miéville (one of the most critically lauded authors of his generation). It would be beneath you, right?

I’m here to tell you. There are good books, and there are bad books, but neither is defined by a genre. They are defined by the skill and talent and craft and creativity that went into creating them. A lot of genre fiction is bad. And so is a lot of literary fiction. So fuck you and your elitism right in your elitist skinny-jean-wearing cornhole.

Second: Fuck you for being a bully. Fuck you for taking malicious pleasure in making someone else feel bad for liking something. Fuck you for thinking you’re better than me because you don’t read the same things I’ve read. Fuck you for taking me out of a righteous good mood and putting me in a shitty mood for much of the rest of my day. You’re an asshole.

I was in a shitty mood, and I stayed that way for a few hours. As luck would have it, that evening I was hanging out with some friends, who with their good humour and kind words helped me see the funny side. Now I can look back on this complete asshole and laugh, because he’s practically a cartoon of himself – a smug little ponce in skinny jeans who never learned how to shave, who gets his jollies putting down other people for liking fantasy when they should be reading magic realism. I can’t imagine a more ridiculous caricature of someone who is both a too-cool-for-school hipster and a complete fucking dork.

But that day reminded me that just because school is over doesn’t mean bullying is over. There’s always going to be people who try to make you feel bad for who you are, whether it’s for being gay, or black, or a Conservative, or a vegan, or a dude who likes his entertainment with a side of murder and explosions and werewolves and tits.

The thing we have to remember about those people is that they have no power over us. They lash out because they see that what we are or what we love makes us happy – and because they are unhappy, they try to bring us down to their level. What we have to remember about the bully is that they are weak, and pathetic, and as my friends helped me realize about this guy – they end up being nothing. This guy made me feel shitty for a few hours, and that sucked. But I’ll be laughing at his ridiculous, pompous douchebaggery for a lot longer than that.