byChrisWhite – 2018

Thank You, Fate, For My Enemies

The man who taught me the lesson wore denim overalls and spoke as if time had to catch its breath between each word. He leaned against a cedar post out by the stockyard one fall afternoon, sun crowning the hills in gold. He didn’t look up when he said it. Just kept chewing his tobacco like the earth had nothing new to show him.

“Most folks don’t mind if you do well,” he said. “They just can’t stand it if you do better than them.”

That stuck to my ribs like supper on a cold night.

And I’ve been thinking on it ever since.

See, I’ve had my fair share of foes. Not the kind you write ballads about, no duels at dawn or long blood feuds that require a family tree to decipher. No, mine are quieter, pettier, more modern. They hide behind manners, behind half-hearted praise, behind digital silences that speak louder than words ever did. They gather in boardrooms, or congregate in comment sections, or worse still, smile at you with the teeth of a wolf and the eyes of a lamb.

And here’s the part I didn’t expect: I’m thankful for them.

No, really.

You might catch a glimmer in my eye when I say that, a wry twist at the edge of my mouth. But don’t mistake it for sarcasm. I mean it with the kind of sincerity that only comes after you’ve been stung a few times and lived to laugh about it.

Of course I’d rather be liked. Wouldn’t we all? I’m not made of granite and gunpowder. I have my soft spots, just ask anyone who’s ever seen me cry during a dog food commercial. I want to be invited, welcomed, baked into someone’s Saturday afternoon like fresh bread and small talk. I want folks to see me coming and smile without checking their watch. There’s nothing weak in wanting to be wanted.

But here’s the truth of it: enemies are necessary. They’re the shadow that makes the light shine sharper. They are resistance, the weight against which strength is formed. The moment you realize that, they stop being threats and start becoming tools.

A rival keeps the edge honed. A backbiter tightens your spine. A saboteur forces you to double-check the locks and know the value of your own damn grit.

When you’ve got someone watching, just waiting for you to slip, you walk steadier, don’t you? You lace your boots tighter. You double your resolve. Without them, we soften. We coast. We start to believe our own press releases. But with them? We stay real. We stay ready.

And they come in all forms. Some wear envy like a second skin. Others are subtle craftsmen of sabotage, carving out their bitterness with the finesse of a violinist. And some, well, they’re just sad. Sad and scared and desperate to matter. They look at your progress and see a billboard screaming everything they haven’t done. They think life is a zero-sum game: your rise equals their fall. You become, in their story, the villain. Not because you are, but because they needed one.

And I’ve been them, too.

There’s no halo on this head. I’ve sat across from someone whose joy lit up a room and felt that dark flicker in my gut. Why not me? Why not now? Why does their path look smooth while mine is all switchbacks and sinkholes?

But life has taught me, painfully, patiently, that no one coasts forever. Every golden boy has his bruises. Every darling girl cries in the bathroom at some point. What we see is only the surface. Beneath, there’s a churn, a throb, a story not told. So I’ve tried to meet that flicker with honesty. With humility. With grace, if I can manage it. And when I can’t, I try again tomorrow.

Now, there are some folks who don’t try at all. Their jealousy has grown roots. Deep, gnarled roots that twist around their sense of self. I call it E.D.—Enormously Dominant jealousy. It’s a condition, really. Makes them think your light dims theirs. That your joy is theft. That your success is a wound. They live on a seesaw, and can’t rest unless you’re in the dirt.

But here’s the twist: most of them don’t hate you. They hate what they see in the mirror after you’ve passed by. You become the yardstick, the measuring rod against which they fall short. And that? That ain’t about you at all. That’s their unfinished work, their unread chapters, their unopened letters.

And so they scheme. They whisper. They twist your words. They build little altars of resentment and pray you trip.

But I’ve come to believe their prayers are blessings in disguise.

Because every time I’ve been counted out, cut off, cut down, I’ve grown. Not in spite of it, but because of it. Every barb sharpened my resolve. Every cold shoulder turned me toward my true people. Every attempt to hold me back forced me to dig deeper, stand taller, burn brighter.

Fate is funny like that. She doesn’t send you heroes wrapped in ribbon. Sometimes she sends you villains, saboteurs, shadows, and in defeating them, you find your own strength. In surviving them, you define yourself.

So to all my wonderful foes, past and present, loud and sneaky, real and imagined—, I say thank you. Thank you for the sleepless nights and clenched teeth. Thank you for the motivation. Thank you for reminding me who I am and what I’m made of.

You thought you were hurting me.

You were making me.

And for that, I’m grateful.

 

FOES

Thank you Fate for foes! I hold mine dear

As valued friends. He cannot know

The Zest of life who runneth here

His earthly race without a foe.

I saw a prize. “Run,” cried my friend;

“’Tis yours to claim without a doubt.”

But ere I half-way reached the end,

I felt my strength was giving out.

My foe looked on while I ran;

A scornful triumph lit his eyes.

With that perseverance born in man,

I nerved myself, and won the prize.

All blinded by the crimson glow

Of Sin’s disguise, I tempted Fate.

“I knew thy weakness?” sneered my foe,

I saved myself, and balked his hate.

For half my blessings, half my gain,

I must thank my trusty Foe;

Despite his envy and disdain,

He serves me well where’er I go.

So may I keep him to the end,

Nor may his enmity abate;

More faithful than the fondest friend,

He guards me ever with his hate.

W. Wilcox