the meanie
I was about four. We were visiting a house in Southeast Philly's sludgy grey-and-brick wastelands. When the little girl who lived there and I went to play in their barren backyard, she warned me that her grandmother was a "meanie."
The back door popped open a few minutes later, and Grandma Meanie began screaming at both of us...until she caught my eye and realized I wasn't one of her little abuse-worthy descendents. She immediately dropped the Witch Face, apologized, and disappeared behind the door.
The Meanie's sudden change of tone left a dent in my brain deep enough to salvage the memory nearly four decades later. It was one of the few times in my childhood when I was singled out to be spared from scorn. And it was early proof of the principle that people treat you as harshly as they feel entitled to treat you. I was exempted because Meanie's predatory rodent mind only felt the right to spit venom at blood relatives. Everyone else was off-limits.
In this world full of Meanies, it's best to radiate the sense that you aren't to be fucked with. Spray an invisible skunk cloud around yourself. Walk through life with wide shoulders and cold steel in your eyes. Use body language to warn all Meanies you'll inflict ruthless retaliation through either brute force or subterfuge. But remember that it's not as important to be capable of revenge as it is to create the idea that you're untouchable.
Beyond that, be as nice as you can manage.
