ON THE morning of September 10, 2021, I woke up at 6:50 AM and began my routine like any other school day. I made breakfast for my kids, packed their lunches, hugged them, and sent them on their way. Afterward I poured a cup of coffee and retired to my office to check my messages and my socials. Perusing my Instagram account, I saw that I had several message requests, which was nothing unusual, and I began the business of vetting them. The first of these was from a guy named J.T., or maybe T.J., who wore a trimmed goatee in the style of former major-league slugger Mark McGwire and straddled a muddy ATV in his avatar. I immediately figured him for somebody in one of my sports groups. I was wrong. His message read: "There's a special place in hell for people like you. I hope you burn."
This guy might be onto something, I thought. After all, I was far from perfect. I drink too much, I cuss like a longshoreman, and I've had countless moments of weakness. But why was his animosity directed at me? I wasn't going to give it much thought and moved on to the second message, which was from another guy with a goatee: "Don't ever set foot in Texas, if you value your life. I'll be waiting for you." Um, okay. That seemed like a lot of hostility for a Friday morning, but we live in troubled times. I wasn't planning any trips to Texas, SO after my initial momentary unease, I let that one go as well, despite its threatening tone. The third message read: "You probably f*#k your daughter's, you sick f*#k.” Confused and a bit shaken, I proceeded to my Facebook account, where four more message requests awaited me, including two more threats, along with a vile screed rife with misspellings proclaiming me "a filthy pedo who should rot in hell."
This story is from the September - October 2022 edition of Poets & Writers Magazine.
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This story is from the September - October 2022 edition of Poets & Writers Magazine.
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