Don't be a dick

A little over a week ago, my grandfather died. I wasn't there, but my father was. He had been there all week, patiently offering his presence while his father made his final decline, remaining through his periods of distress just as he remained through his periods of calm. Being present when he had nothing to do, and present when he could act, too. It is a labour of love and immense human dignity to witness a dying in this way, and, fortunately, we seldom do it alone, as those who give their whole presence are, in their turn, offered a swelling of the presence of others, and they too, are given a little more. In the best deaths, we build a pyramid of one another, raising our arms in response to an increased emotional need, knowing that while we can never relieve that need, we can bear its weight a little just by being unafraid to hold it.

After I spoke to my dad, I let me children know that their great-grandfather had died. It was bedtime, but it felt wrong to wait until morning, and it was evident my son had an inkling. It was an expected death, a death from old age, and one which had escaped him for some years now, so that every time I saw him he would tell me at some point that he was ready to die. My grandfather was at one stage the youngest ever spitfire instructor, and though he rarely spoke about the war, he remembered his flying as the best days of his life. He was lucky. He returned. And returned unscathed, except for having committed himself, shotgun style I always imagined, to a woman I never got the impression he loved. Never the less, he had a life, and he used it. He continued running well into his eighties, though his speed and distance dropped, and at some point in the last decade he told me he had taken up learning French. Or Italian. I forget which. But he tired of it all, in the end, and so it was not a death to rail against.

After the children were settled in bed, with my partner out at work, I was alone, not railing, but processing all the same. So I did what so many of us here would do. I gave over a half hour, more or less, to write a little poem, me, witnessing him, and by publishing it here, having my grief witnessed in my turn. And yes, arms raised up, and several of you beautiful people just offered me those condolences which do nothing except remind us that there are others all around us, which is, of course, everything. I thank you for that.

But now I need to apologise for leading you down a false path, because this piece is not about the profundity of loss, or the nurturance of human connection. No, I am sorry to say that this piece is about good fucking manners.

This morning, I awoke to the following comment on my poem, which had indeed been made a Top Story:

Congratulations on having your story featured as a top story on Vocal! This is a remarkable achievement, and it's clear why your work has received such recognition.

Your storytelling is truly exceptional. The narrative was not only compelling but also beautifully crafted, holding my attention from start to finish. The way you developed the characters and plot was masterful, making the story both engaging and thought-provoking.

Your unique voice and perspective shine through, setting your work apart. It’s evident that you poured a lot of passion and effort into this piece, and it has certainly paid off.

I look forward to reading more of your incredible stories in the future. Keep up the fantastic work!

Best regards,

I have elected to remove the name, though I have no doubt some of you will have read this comment on your own work. Indeed, somewhat artlessly, the exact same comment had been left, equally inapplicably, on another of my stories at the same time. I do deplore dishonesty but if you're going to masquerade as a reader with copy and paste comments, at least do so with some degree of subtlety!

What I would like to say is this - though I appreciate that by saying so in this format I have turned firmly to the choir and preached with my back to the sinners - behaviour like this is not trifling. Or rather, it IS trifling, because in doing this, you trifle with another person's emotions. Did you know that? That on the other side of this exchange is not an AI, but a human being who has made themselves vulnerable in sharing something of themselves here. No, let me finish, save the apology, I don't need it. This is a very marked case, isn't it. Someone actually died. Someone actually died and you showed up to the funeral shouting "Many happy returns", tossing confetti and wearing a Christmas jumper. I'm not entirely sure what the aim of this Top Story cruising is, but it seems to me that every time you hear a toast being made you show up and try to dance the Hora before even checking to see if the guest of honour is dead or alive.

This, frankly, is in poor taste. You're not the only one. Don't think you're the first to have the ground breaking inventiveness to "cheat the system". One in a long line, I'm afraid. But I would be grateful if you would take a moment to ask yourself if this is worth it. Because here is someone's grief. Here is someone's torment, someone's paranoia, someone's pain. Here is someone's tenderness, and the courage to start again. Here is someone's fear, someone's loss or isolation. Here, amongst these stories, is someone's consolation. And it may be valid to argue that if we are going to post them online then we need a skin that's tough enough to not really mind what's said in response. How we are read. If we are not read at all. Valid, as I say, and indeed I do not seek your apology because I am. Tough enough. But I think you ought to know, that what you are doing is disrespectful, and it does you no credit to do it.

As for my grandfather, he had no belief in a "better place". To his mind, this was it, and we had best do what we can to make it worth the doing. Sometimes that is about doing the thing that is right, and sometimes that is about doing the thing that feels good. With that in mind, I'm off to water my garden, and I shall remember him and the scent of his summer tomatoes, and think of my dad, who was patiently present, knowing the cost is sometimes what we pay for owning our integrity.