She was 11 or 12. She was an ugly duckling, a bag of bones but she liked the boy next door. She liked him in a way often embarrassing to the shy kid. She would stand on the apartment landing just to make sure she‘d see him and could tell him what he thought were more upsetting words. The youngster was confused and hated her with a passion. He was perhaps 13 and more interested in going fishing and hunting birds.
The little girl’s long black hair was tied up on the back of her head in a ponytail.
He hated ponytails and would continue to do so for years to come. For a few three more years his family lived next door to hers, a family of seven siblings whose one of these progenies, she was.
In those days, in that country where these two kids were from, a war was raging. A brutal war, too complicated to understand for young minds, mostly preoccupied with camaraderie and playfulness.
Sadly, the worst for them and their families, was that they did not belong to the winning side of that war and were ousted from the land forever.
Years went by and of course, the juvenile became an adult. The war was a thing of the past, he had tried as hard as he could to forget about everything he had ever known before and was avid to learn new ways, new thoughts, new feelings, and even new languages. He, so badly wanted the torment of his youth to disappear that he would dream of becoming a special person.
One day, walking down the Champs-Élisées a young woman passed by him. She was attractive and smiled at him. A few more steps down the Avenue, he could not resist but turn around to have a second look. She had a ponytail. A short, light sensation of revulsion invaded him but he couldn’t, not appreciate the grace of her gait and her well-proportioned undulating curvatures.
He continued nonchalantly walking down the street. Lost in the multitude, drowned in humanity, his mind started wandering back and the beauties of the most prestigious avenue in the world became invisible.
Later that night, staring at the street light reflection illuminating the ceiling, alone in his studio apartment, he got to remember that poor little ugly girl of his youth. Florence was her name.
Why did I dislike her so much? He was asking himself almost out loud.
Without even making any conscious effort, his brain was already answering the question.
- She liked you. She never said anything wrong to you. All of her words were complimentary. She admired you. She wanted to get to know you. She was attracted by you.
So why? How could she be attracted? She was only a tiny little girl. Why did he dislike her so much? He had skinny legs and was as awkward as he was bony. Effortlessly though, the answer came to him again.
- Because of all of the above. She likes you because of who you were in her eyes. No more, no less.
Later, for the now-adult man living in New York City, that night had been revelatory. It was not her, her looks or unattractiveness, nor her ponytail, he disliked but himself.
Again, as a curious and hungry learner, he, that night, decided to seriously look into his issues and become to like women so much, he thought that knowing more about himself, by himself, would help him in that department too.
Years continued to flow. After many a tribulation, trips, amorous adventures, and ventures, he was walking by a newspaper stand on Broadway, and picked up a French magazine. The front page was sporting a supermodel. He quickly flipped through the pages and began to nervously laugh out loud. It was too much. Tossing the magazine from one hand, over his head, catching it with the other, laughing his head off, he got to the street corner, waiting for the green light to turn on. Inadvertently, immersed in an ocean of memories and excitement, he bumped into a policeman. The man in blue gave him a dirty look at first but soon realized that the young man bumped into him by accident as he could feel his overflowing emotions.
- Look Mr. policeman! Sorry, officer. Look! Florence. Ah ah a ha ha!
- Beautiful woman. Do you know her?
- Do I? Do I? She had a ponytail.
Perplexed, the cop said
- A ponytail! Okay. Go on. Light’s green…. And mind where you walk… Ah, those foreigners!
A few more years passed and on an occasional trip back to the South of France, while walking through the aisles of a supermarket, he ran into this elderly woman he did not recognize at first. She did him, however. She was almost in tears as she was expressing her joy of this encounter after some 50 years. They chatted for a few minutes about almost everything but nothing, in particular, so he thought he’d go where she obviously wanted to go.
- I’ve heard of Florence’s success.
- Yes, she said with teary eyes. She had three children. She named her boy after you.
- After me? How is she anyway?
- She’s no longer with us. She passed away 4 years ago. Breast cancer.
The man was floored.
- She made me make her a promise. She asked me if ever I would see you again to let you know that she never failed to think of you each day of her life.
Now, the guy was crushed and totally lost for words.
They embraced each other and never met again.
You may ask, why am I telling you that story?
Simple. It is all about hating someone without any good reason to do so.
So, here is the correlation
Today America is engulfed in acrimony. Divisions are deep. Resentments are triggered by totally fabricated rhetoric aimed at exacerbating societal cleavage designed to promote recycled ideals or the idea ‘du jour’. Unfounded hatred is promulgated by the so-called ‘Elite’ and disseminated by a complicit media to generate reactions they hope or calculate, which would translate into votes, hence power.
So people take one side or another, based on hatred or negative feelings they cannot explain, even if that animosity, in and of itself a prejudice, is directed at someone who had their best interest at heart. Particularly when that individual attained the top of what an overblown ego may have demanded of him at first.
Matter of fact, although not a Trump fan (Fan is an abbreviation of ‘fanatical’) nor a fan of any other person, celebrity, or sports figure for that matter, I’ve asked hundreds of people, men and women: “Why do you hate Trump”. I got a kaleidoscope of answers. A plethora of superfluous reasons, none of which would have made any sense to any impartial clear mind. Eye rolling at the mere mention of the man’s name, followed by nonsensical elucubrations on the theme ‘A Priori’ assuming that someone, and in particular that specific person, is incapable of change or finding his life’s calling, is what I got each time.
Sadly, unfounded rancor is a dire life’s point of view for too many, mostly men, who do not realize that excuses they select to dislike someone are mostly based on their own basic needs, wants, and secret wishes. Lucky those who don’t know envy!
As years will continue to go by, someday, one day, curious minds will ask themselves:
- Why did I dislike this man so much?
Effortlessly, the answer will come to them.
“It’s the Ponytail story, stupid!”