ºüÀêÊÓƵ

That’s the message the angry, male caller left on my voicemail this week, giving me some websites for quack doctors that question COVID-19 vaccines, and then, for good measure, cussing me out and calling me fat.

He got that last part right. At least he was accurate about something. When I was a kid, and I didn’t want to admit to my struggles with weight, I used to say I was “big-boned.� I might have even conceded a “chubby� now and then. I’m older now, and much more comfortable in my own skin, all of it. Yes. I’m fat. Obese, even, according to the chart at my doctor’s office. The pandemic hasn’t been kind to me in that regard. Just the other day, in preparation for eventually having to wear real pants and re-enter society, I had to order some new dress clothes online. My pre-pandemic clothes, save for my sweat pants, are, well, a bit tight.

The insult from an angry caller didn’t particularly bother me. Such is the nature of being somewhat in the public eye. I get insulted on social media, on the radio, in email, and sometimes on my voicemail.

What did bother me is the anger. The day I heard that voicemail, the Associated Press about how school board members across the country have been resigning, in part because of the anger directed at them by anti-mask and anti-vaccine advocates who have stormed public meetings, threatened violence, and made lives difficult for volunteers whose only sin is following the best medical advice to set policies to protect children, teachers, nurses and janitors.

Just the other day, in a video that went viral for all the wrong reasons, a Republican candidate for county executive in Pennsylvania called for to forcibly remove school board members who vote for mask mandates.

Here in ºüÀêÊÓƵ, we know that anger all too well. We’ve seen it in the Rockwood School District, where I live, where protests in the past year over masks, quarantines and even the trumped-up debate over critical race theory caused administrators to resign, and others to request security.

The fear is real.

I saw it in a Facebook post from a ºüÀêÊÓƵ area city council member just the other day. The council had passed its own vaccination requirement for employees, like many businesses and governments in the region have adopted. One member of the council expressed the fear she had after the meeting, facing screaming residents, in a post she has since taken down. I asked her if I could talk to her about it. She declined, fearful for her young child and her family’s privacy. I don’t blame her.

Such is life in government today. Public health directors are verbally attacked and stalked to the point where they resign, particularly in rural areas, leaving their communities less protected. Teachers, nurses and school board members on the front lines of the pandemic, instead of being praised for their bravery and hard work, deal with regular volleys of personal abuse.

On one hand, I understand anger. Everybody I know is angry to some extent that the pandemic rages on. We are angry, or at least frustrated, that we’re still wearing masks, that too many of our neighbors won’t, thus perpetuating the problem, that the right-wing outrage machine continues to feed the anger that in turn feeds the pandemic.

But what I truly don’t understand is directing that anger toward people who simply disagree with a political philosophy — neighbors who get their information from different sources, or who voted for a different president, or who simply dance to the beat of a different drummer.

The truth is, on top of being fat, I have a temper problem. When I was a kid, my mom once pulled me out of a tennis tournament, because in the middle of a match, I did my best John McEnroe impression, tossing my racket into the ground, and cussing myself out over my inability to play to the level I desired. Mom walked onto the court toward my opponent, shook his hand, and let him know he had won the match. Then she picked up my racket and pointed to the car.

My mother put me on notice.

For most of my life, my anger has generally been inward, as compared to being directed at people who disagree with me. I write words for a living, and as such, people disagree with me all the time. Some of them choose to be angry. If it makes them feel better, I welcome their calls on my voicemail. I will listen. I promise.

But leave the school boards alone. Be kind to nurses and teachers. The pandemic isn’t over. Your anger isn’t going to make it end any more quickly.