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Milquetoasting your way through the day

Rage-bait is the ‘word’ of 2025 according to the Oxford University Press (whatever that is); does the fact that I’d never heard it before say more about my absence from online social networks, or my Age? Rage-Bait, I’m given to understand, is social media content that is designed to incite a strong and negative emotion in those who wade though their feeds each day like the leech-gatherers in the ponds of my Winnipeg childhood. Most of those were harvesting for fishing bait; I suppose names change; nothing else does, though… except, perhaps, the medium in which it can be expressed.

I’m reminded of Heraclitus, a pre-Socratic  philosopher who championed the idea of Change, and like today’s social media he believed that Change is the only reliable constant: it never makes up its mind; one could not rely on permanence either of opinions, or fashions. I mean you can never step in the same river twice, eh?

Sometimes opinions expressed online are meant to goad, to champion the idea of change rather than offering reasoned opinions to guide your life. Disaffection has always been with us… so have vocal invectives.

It’s all a game, really… Rage-baits are like those wooden stir-sticks for the drinks you get at coffee shops: they are only meant to stir things up. Online, the more outrageous your post, the more reaction, the more stirs, the more followers you get -all very useful if nothing else is on offer in your life. But of course I have never aspired to be a media influencer -I’m not even sure what that entails unless you’ve managed to monetize your posts; or you happen to be the designer of an algorithm intent on directing traffic: getting more ‘clicks’ for the entity that has hired you.

But I wonder why negative, or provocative assaults, seem to garner so much attention. Are those affected supposed to be titillated, or to be genuinely convinced by the reproach? Some have suggested that perhaps in times long past, stirring up anger against the other was more protective of your group because letting down your guard might allow dangerous outsiders to infiltrate and form a fifth column; they might try to change your mind -or do more than merely threaten violence.

And when in doubt, the safety of the group trumps (sorry) everything. Nowadays social media propagates opinions more effectively than personal encounters; there always seem to be some people out there who are attracted to viewpoints that are anti-something, so it’s easy (and tempting) to encourage them if that is your goal. It’s the why would you which troubles me though.

I mean on the spur of the moment, it’s almost too easy to write or say something ill thought-out and then move on. Not like in the olden days (okay, I actually lived in them) when you had to put pen to paper, paper to envelope, and envelope to post box to propagate miscreant opinions; plenty of opportunity to change your mind on the way to mailing it…

It seems to me that speed and convenience are not always beneficial when you’re temporarily vexed with something; slowing it down might work better. Like when you’re really mad at somebody for saying or doing something they hadn’t thought through, you should do the thinking-through for them. Nothing’s gained if your reaction becomes a mirror, or your voice a sword.

Too Kumbaya? Feel the need to strike out to show you are not a milquetoast; a need to demonstrate that you really do have strong feelings about something or other; that there is a requirement -no, a duty- to parry-riposte? Maybe you’ve been click-baited too often, and it’s time to demonstrate you won’t take it any longer; nor should others, eh?

I was walking through one of those ubiquitous clothing stores in the local mall the other day. I wasn’t dressed for the occasion -or maybe I was: my jeans had… you know, ragged cuffs like most pants experience if you wear them a lot on hikes. I was also wearing an oversized and faded blue(ish) sweatshirt that looked (purposely) unwashed as if I were deliberately trying to demonstrate my elderly insouciance.

It was a Tuesday afternoon and the store was almost empty, except for an elderly woman who clearly took pride in her appearance. She was wearing a knitted red dress under an expensive looking long blue woolen coat. Unlike my own unrestrained curls that danced like children playing in the summer grass, her greying hair was neatly coiffed with no hint of rebellion. Only her expression seemed rebellious.

I only mention her because she appeared to station herself at the far end of each aisle I visited, and stared at me from afar with obvious disapproval. Her continual scrutiny began to annoy me so I decided to confront her -politely, of course.

I quickly slipped away from the next aisle she guarded, and snuck up on her from behind. When she noticed she’d been outmaneuvered, she turned and glared at me, her eyes ravaging me as if I had wandered out of a backdoor in the store where I had been working on the plumbing, or something. I thought my  smile might disarm her, but I was wrong.

She shook her head at my appearance and sighed. “I thought for a moment you were my brother-in-law,” she said unapologetically. “He never bothers to change when he comes to the mall. Nobody cares in a mall, eh?” She tried to roll her eyes, but then she abandoned it mid-roll; I wasn’t worth the effort.

I furrowed my brow to demonstrate that I didn’t understand her annoyance, my smile unwavering.

She shook her head as if, not only was I improperly attired, but perhaps I was also neuro-challenged or  something. “You should dress properly when you mingle with strangers; you’re not digging in your garden or playing with your dog in the back yard!!” she almost hissed at me.

We were standing beside a mirror, and I glanced at it to see if I had missed a stain on my sweatshirt, or there was a tear somewhere on the back of my pants that I couldn’t see. I shrugged when I couldn’t find anything that could be arousing her anger. I mean I was in a men’s store for goodness sakes; could I not be trying to find some other, more suitable clothes…?

All the while I was puzzling over her outrage, I tried not to argue; tried not to parry her anger with a riposte of my own: that she was rather over-dressed for a mall -although she actually looked rather kempt for an elderly lady I thought.

But my lack of defence seemed to enrage her further, and she shook her head in what I could only assume was contempt. “At least my brother-in-law apologizes to me if I catch him before he leaves the house dressed like… like you,’ she said with what I assumed was a dentured gridlock in her mouth.

I shrugged, and was just about to walk away, when I saw an elderly man come rushing over to her. He gave her a hug and smiled at me apologetically. “I thought I’d lost you Matty,” he said to the woman, his arm now around her waist as he began to lead her away. Then he stopped and turned his head towards me. “She sometimes wanders off,” he explained and then, in a man-to-man exchange, rolled his eyes at me. “She forgets where she is… she really doesn’t mean to rage-bait,” he added as he rolled his eyes.

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