About an hour into last night’s concert, three tall, broad shouldered guys walk into our aisle. They were dressed in fine sweaters and slacks, well-shaven with short-cropped hair. Think Christian Bale dressed in Ralph Lauren.
Perhaps they were buzzed. Perhaps they were drunk. But when they came into our aisle to talk to some friends who were sitting in the aisle above us, they didn’t stop next to us, they stopped on top of us. And they proceeded to have a conversation as if we were part of the furniture. It was the first time in a long time that I had been muscled out of the way.
In fact, it had been too long. I’d lost track of where we are in our slouch towards Bethlehem. Their entitlement, a product of a culture where physical domination is acceptable, is the exception in the circles in which I run, but it remains the norm in many others.