Looking out my Backdoor: Building a sturdy spite fence

Unfortunately, I have friends stuck in a spite fight. As is often the case, one party is bewildered while the other party is self-righteously sticking pins in voodoo dolls, metaphorically speaking.

I’m the onlooker.

There is nothing I can do but watch it unfold. I feel sad. I know about spite. And I know who spite hurts. Not so much the intended victim, who often is unaware.

My first clear and vivid memory of my own spiteful action occurred when I was five or six years old. My grandma made me share my favorite doll with my little sister. OK. Sharing is good. But I was not allowed to play with my sister’s dolls. Catch the

righteousness here?

I showed her. I cut the fingers off my favorite little rubber doll. So there! Play with her now!

Who did I hurt? Well, it wasn’t my sister who had to live with both a disabled doll and that ugly memory of spite.

My next most shameful and cringe-worthy memory is from high school and over a member of the opposite sex. Rightly or wrongly, I thought, rumor being such a marvelous tool, that she was after him and I had him! This is embarrassing to admit. I flaunted it in her face.

Immediately I felt shame and remorse. My behavior was despicable and I knew it. A part of me slunk away and died from that experience.

High school romances are fleeting but memory is forever. Fortunately I paid attention. I did not like those feelings of inner ugliness. Again, who did my spite hurt? Me.

Years later, I was moving house and my male helper was whingeing and whining. I showed him. Remember when television sets were huge, awkward, a 30-inch square box weighing half as much as myself? I wrapped my arms around that sucker, the television, not the guy, and stomped it down the long, narrow stairway, across the alley and slung it over the side into the pickup. The guy was oblivious to my righteousness and my anger but my spine screamed, hyper-aware, for days.

Memories are painful. Learning often hurts. But these memories taught me a lot about myself, my own tendencies to righteousness and urge to get even for slights, real or imagined. For the most part I’ve been able to keep a lid on those tendencies.

So it pains me when I see someone I love building a spite fence. Metaphorical or built with brick and razor wire, a spite fence works. It keeps one party righteous in indignation and anger at wrongs, real or imagined. It keeps the other party from opening communication, from attempting to solve what might once have been a solvable problem.

Everybody loses. The neighbors on either side of the spite fence lose friendship and trust. The fenced-in neighbor loses sleep for a few nights but that will pass. The fence builder loses sleep too, ever vigilant to find more reasons for hate and anger, nightly reviewing and revising each possibility.

The reasons are very real. “He looked at me.” “He didn’t speak to me.” “He pushed ahead of me in line.” Think grade school.

Me, the onlooker. I lose too. I lose at least one friend. There is nothing I can do. I tried. This isn’t the first spite fence flung in the way of communication between these people.

Once, a few years ago, I asked the perpetrator, “How does that make you feel.”

“I feel great,” the answer. The words from his mouth and the expression on his face did not match.

Alrighty then.

There are a lot of kinds and examples of spite fences. My favorite, from a farmer in Utah. He planted a row of old vehicles nose down along the boundary of his farm and a new housing development, after his new neighbors complained of farm dust and animal smells. He called it “Redneck Stonehenge.”

I hope his story had a happy ending. Neighbors got the message, were able to say, “Oh, well, sure, I chose to live next to a farm.” And perhaps the farmer uprooted his fence, easy to plant, easy to remove.

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Sondra Ashton grew up in Harlem but spent most of her adult life out of state. She returned to see the Hi-Line with a perspective of delight. After several years back in Harlem, Ashton is seeking new experiences in Etzatlan, Mexico. Once a Montanan, always. Read Ashton’s essays and other work at http://montanatumbleweed.blogspot.com/. Email sondrajean.ashton@yahoo.com.