The Mighty Atlas & His Clown Brigade

She called us clowns. Clowns. What the hell? The ego wounded college student, a strong, young white man of nineteen and self-described Progressive Social Justice Warrior, Climate Savior, and Anti-Racist Champion sat on his dilapidated couch in his college apartment, fixated on his mental injury and emotional wounds, still dressed in his tactical gear outfit from earlier in the day. The tough looking black apparel: combat-ready shirt, assault-ready pants, exoskeleton knee and elbow pads, and bullet-reflecting body armor vest, topped off with ballistic-protective sunglasses, were all insufficient protection against the unwarranted, vicious psychological attack from the overpowering enemy; an unarmed girl in jeans, about five feet, seven inches tall. He threw his expensive fireproof, knife-proof, glass-proof, cut proof, bruise proof tactical gloves onto the coffee table, a dramatic display of disgust at his present state of being. And then that fascist, prick boyfriend of hers was like, ‘I particularly like the superhero wannabe utility belt’. Utility belt? Asshole. This is a battle belt. It carries important stuff like a flashlight, a knife, a fire starter, and… and a bunch of stuff. It’s more than a utility belt. Screw him. It’s more like… well, it’s like… it’s like stuff you can use… it’s… well, okay, maybe it is a utility belt, but just the way he said it. He talked to me like I was a child or something. He talked to us like we were some kinda clown. My tactical gear looks cool, damnit. And then he asked if my Mom got me this stuff for Christmas. So, what if she did? That’s none of his business. Screw him, he’s the clown, not me. How did he know my Mom got me all this stuff for Christmas? Atlas replayed the comments over and over in his head, driving him to the precipice of insanity. The faces of the couple that had verbally assaulted him and demeaned his cool Equity Warrior gear remained fresh in his mind, the life of the vivid memory fueled by a mixture of anger and hurt. Mostly hurt. Getting more hurtful each time he replayed it in his head. Part of him wanted revenge for the indignation, but that feeling was small compared to the tsunami of deflation and hopelessness that engulfed his psyche and was in the process of drowning his spirit, all brought on by two people, complete strangers, calling him a clown. And stupid! That’s right, that mean girl called me stupid. She called me a clown and she called me stupid. Stupid and clown, he mumbled to himself, reliving the traumatic, life experience in his mind, his eyes darting wildly through the room, fixated in the past; his face contorting as he repeatedly walked through the triggering conversation. Atlas’ two friends, Matheo and Enzo, also warriors in the cause of social justice and protecting Mother Earth from any change, but especially climate change, sat in the room with him, both in their tactical outfits, their less extravagant outfits, and watched his changing expressions with dismay, afraid for their friend’s mental health. “You okay, Atlas?” Matheo asked hesitantly, fearful of the response he might get. Atlas didn’t answer but instead recalled the incident in Grand Rapids, Michigan earlier that day. He, Matheo and Enzo had heard about a Social Justice & Equity Rally downtown. Or was it a parade? He thought he heard someone call it a Social Justice Parade at some point. Or a protest. Did someone call it a protest? He couldn’t remember exactly what it was, but he was certain that the event was exactly what he had been waiting for. A chance to fight Global Cooling. A chance to stand up to The Man. A chance to fight whiteness and white supremacy. A chance to exact revenge on America and the patriarchal society that Western Civilization had thrust on the kind, diverse and peaceful global community. A chance to stand up to the cis-gender oppressors. A chance to make a difference. A chance to be somebody. A chance to don the cool, new tactical gear and utility belt he had gotten from his Mom for Christmas. The three had gone to the rally, or parade, or mostly peaceful protest or whatever it was and before they could get to where the real rioting and looting was taking place, ran into two people walking, a guy and a girl. This was the first opportunity the three had to assert themselves and make their collective, world saving voice heard. Atlas had immediately ordered the couple to reject white supremacy by dropping to their knees and rejecting their whiteness. A fair and righteous order in the mind of Atlas. Who could object to rejecting whiteness? The answer - apparently the two people that Atlas had barked the order at. They didn’t comply when commanded and instead got combative, calling Atlas, Matheo and Enzo, clowns. And stupid! That girl called me stupid, Atlas thought, again rewinding the mental video. And she called me a bunch of other stuff too. Narcis… narcissis… well, she called me stupid. How did that guy know I got this stuff for Christmas? Atlas again wondered to himself, his brow furrowing under the weight of the puzzle. His friends stared at him, wondering and concerned that their friend wasn’t really in the room with them. He could still see that couple both laughing, over and over again. Clowns. He watched the word exit her lips for at least the millionth time.  What the hell? Damn them! I’m not a clown, I’m a Social Justice Equity Warrior and Climate Defender. Or Savior. Or something like that; something cool and noble.