The Tao Of “Bless Your Heart”

How embracing my Southern-ness and the advice of Joe Strummer helped me cope with an increasingly cruel world.

Yeah, I get that this pic of one piece of my room’s rather silly décor hardly illustrates the “bless your heart” concept. Maybe my heart needs blessing for putting a Long John Silver’s hat on Iggy? (pic: Tim Stegall)

Let’s face it: This world is cruel, rude and offensive, and gets worse by the day. Especially since Cheetoh Mussolini was elected to America’s highest office in 2016, and his boorish, unpresidential behavior and complete lack of class indicated to his very large cult following that they can be as big a jackass as he is.

I have a hard time dealing with assholes. It’s why I have grown more and more withdrawn over time. I get tired of everything I do triggering someone, so they go off in my face, telling me I’m wrong. Contrary to popular belief, I am not naturally a combative person. I have become that over time, and I don’t like it.

I also tire of my values being relentlessly under attack, by the same bullies I’ve had to face since I was a small child. Something about me and my boldness in how I  present myself or speak my opinions has always riled some folks up, why I do not understand. It’s made me more aggressive as time went on, garnering me a reputation I don’t really like. It’s made me angrier, colder, and somewhat warped my natural rebelliousness so that I am on the defense, even when the situation does not warrant it. Maybe it's a set of traits that do more harm than good? Maybe this is why I withdrew into a writing career, limiting my social interactions? I just didn’t like who I’d become. No, retreating and practically becoming a hermit’s not exactly the best idea, but….

So what did I do when all my magazine work dried up and I needed to make up the economic shortfall? Got a job with a call center, working from home. Yeah, forced to deal with the public again. *rolls eyes*

First of all, most people just don't like it when you call them. Doesn’t matter what the reason is. You could be calling to give them $10 million, and they will hate you for calling them. Which makes me wonder why they answered the phone, or even have one.

Second, the instant assumption is that anyone calling them is a telemarketer. Mind you, “assume nothing” is one of life’s better yardsticks, since it keeps one open, short-circuiting knee-jerk decision-making. But reality is very different from “should be.” You could be calling with that $10 million check, and you’re a salesman as far they are concerned, and you can’t tell them otherwise. And because my speaking voice is somewhat like a game show host’s, then I must be AI or a “robot.” And probably selling something, too.

On top of all this, factor in that I am conducting public opinion surveys. Now I am just the absolute worst scum in the universe, at least if they are a Republican and/or Cheetoh Mussolini supporter. It’s just the icing on the cake as far as why they are now absolutely entitled to heap all the abuse their fragile bodies contain, right on top of my head. Or in my ear, as it were.

And yes, I’m probably still trying to sell them something. I cannot win, under all this paranoia. 

Up until last week, the pressure was building in my brain. I was about ready to ask for a travel budget, so I could fly to the worst offenders’ houses, ring the doorbell, suckerpunch them, then fly back. Which, of course, is not really the healthiest of solutions. Hardly practical, either. 

I began a desperate search for coping mechanisms. I can no longer afford therapy, so I don’t have a licensed sounding board for all my troubles. Sure, I could have written lots of fine punk rock songs about it, but no one wants a pogo-rock concept album about people abusing phone professionals. 

Then just a two weeks ago, a couple of things finally hit me. One was “kill ‘em with kindness.” It’s true: Just be nice as pie to the nastiest sonofabitch around, and it enrages them 200-fold. Then I remembered one of the most profound things Joe Strummer said in his final years: 

“Punk rock means EXEMPLARY MANNERS TO YOUR FELLOW HUMAN BEING. Fuck being an asshole, what you pricks thought it was 20 years ago.”

That makes a lot of sense. Punk is meant to be contrary to the rest of the world. So if the world is being absolutely savage and barbaric, be the polar opposite. Be nice. Be kind. That’s the ultimate “fuck you” to these brutes.

That’s when I remembered my background as a son of Texas and of the South. That’s when I remembered “bless your heart.” 

My Southern forebears perfected the art of the vicious putdown dunked in so much honey and perfume, the target can hardly register what hit them. “Bless your heart” is a stealth “fuck you,” with a kill radius of 500 miles. You bless somebody’s heart, they are dead. And are well and truly fucked.

I began fixing a wide-eyed grin on my face before every call. I was the nicest young man. Everytime someone slammed the phone down on me after unleashing a profane barrage, I grinned wider and blessed their heart under my breath. You would not believe how much my disposition has improved. 

Blessing hearts sets up a protective barrier around yours’. Any rage starting to build within you is instantly released. Your load is immediately lightened. “Bless your heart” cures all that ails ya.

Best of all, I can honestly say I’m happy. I wish I’d thought of “bless your heart” years ago. It would’ve saved me years of therapy and ulcer medication, clearing those anger issues right up. No, things still make me mad, but I handle it constructively now. Through blessing hearts. *grins* 

And if you don’t like how I do things now? Well, bless your heart! *grins*

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