The latest edition of what I call “the literature of rejection “— the disproportionate rage at some insult by life, as evinced by the antiheroes of such fictional works as “The Iliad,” “Paradise Lost” and “Wuthering Heights” and in real life by mass murderers, assassins and terrorists that have included John Wilkes Booth, Adolf Hitler, Lee Harvey Oswald, Timothy McVeigh and Osama bin Laden — is the case of the Nashville bomber, Anthony Quinn Warner.
He fits the profile of the literature of rejection — angry, generally white and always male. What was Warner angry at exactly? AT &T? 5G? His father, who had worked for AT&T? Life? Himself? Unlike many of these monsters, he had a girlfriend — or ex-girlfriend — and that’s where things get really interesting.
According to The Tennessean, the unnamed girlfriend had reported to police in August of 2019 that Warner was making bombs. Police found her with two unloaded guns belonging to Warner. She said that she didn’t want them in the house any longer. The woman was going through some mental health crisis at the time and went off to the hospital for a psychological evaluation.
In the meantime, the police followed up on the matter, referring it to the FBI, but neither investigation went far, because, well, you know, it’s apparently not possible that a woman with mental health issues could also be right about a potential crime, correct?
Or was it, as some posters have suggested, the mere fact that she was a woman? I got to thinking about this and the phenomenon of the Karens — you know, those middle-aged white women who are always demanding to see the manager about some outrage. “Karen” has become the name for a prejudiced, entitled woman.
But what if the outrage and the handling of it stem from a lack of respect and leverage? I recently found myself in a situation in which I was Karening — getting shrill, throwing my credentials around and, yes, demanding to speak to the manager. I think now, how fatuous. But then, my rights as a property owner were being violated and all I got was a “We’re sorry, ma’am.” Sorry? Sorry wasn’t going to fix an entirely avoidable situation.
But it didn’t matter that I was in the right. I could tell by the response that the other party saw me as a nagging old lady — faceless, voiceless and, above all, powerless — a marginalized woman whose permission wasn’t important enough to secure, because my forgiveness was assumed.
For most of human existence, women have been marginalized creatures, holding no physical, political or financial power. They have had little practice, then, in how to wield it when they do have it. But it almost doesn’t matter. You can be as calm, confident and depersonalized as any man in registering a complaint. If you don’t have the physical and societal heft to back it up, you won’t be taken seriously.
If I were a man — particularly a strapping man in the prime of life — I doubt I would’ve been met with “We’re sorry, sir.”
Nevertheless, I haven’t been a journalist for 40 years for nothing. “You’re not faceless and voiceless,” a friend said after hearing about the incident. Damn right. And I will not be silenced.
I will not allow myself — or my permissions and forgiveness — to be taken for granted. And thus I will not assume that every Karen is an entitled bigot. The next time I encounter one, I’ll look her in the eye and stop to listen. Because maybe she has something to say. And because I know that whatever her supposed arrogance — and statistics will back me up on this — she’s unlikely to blow herself up on a Nashville street.