Roger was a victim.
No one he met seemed willing to acknowledge that simple fact, but he knew it was true. Knew it deep in his bones. Maybe not a victim in big ways like people in history, but small ones, regular, everyday, short sharp shocks. Other people, different people, luckier people got a free ride to college or an easy way into a good job or even generous benefits from the government but Roger had to work for everything he had. No rich father or kindly MP for him. He got his first job at 15, delivering papers for his neighbour's shop, and never stopped working. During uni he worked at B&Q with his Mum, helping middle-aged women find cushions and escorting argumentative men to aisle 6 to find the overpriced power tools they needed for assembling Ikea furniture. After uni, he found a grey job, in a grey building where he moved numbers around in boxes for 8 hours before he went home to his little flat. On Fridays he went to his local for drinks with his mates.
Not a victim of great injustices. Just pressed down. Filed smooth. Made uniform. Any time he tried to talk about it though, his friends all got this tired look, their eyes darted towards each other, or rolled dramatically, and someone always said “Christ, Roger, give it a rest. Just drink your pint and stop being a gammon. You sound like my uncle.” Or other hurtful phrases around the theme. He once got called “Nigel” for a week. That one stung.
Online he knew some people, if people was the right word for it. He knew some usernames at least. Online he found a few others who also knew what it was like to be a victim no one would agree was a victim, and together they could agree they had it hard, they were pushed aside and really, in today's society, maybe they were the minority. No-one was telling him he had privilege here. Or was privileged. Or to simply stay silent and finally let others be heard. Even Hollywood seemed to reflect this new normal, with how few people like him he was seeing on screen nowadays.
He read the forum on his phone, mostly. On the bus. In bed. Once, memorably, on the toilet at work for forty minutes while a spreadsheet sat open on his monitor two floors up. He didn't always agree with his online friends. A few seemed to take things too far, or have too much vitriol, even the ones saying things that were hard to dispute. There was a post one evening, a picture really, with a caption underneath it. He read the caption twice. The second time he felt something tighten in his chest, and he almost typed something, his thumb hovered, and then he scrolled on and made a cup of tea. By the time the kettle boiled he'd forgotten what the caption said. Only that he hadn't said anything. That was the important thing. He hadn't joined in, so it wasn't really him.
It was his country. He voted. His great-grandad had landed at Normandy. What more qualification did you need? Still, there was a flavour to it he struggled with, but he didn't want to upset anyone, didn't want to lose what he had, this little corner who seemed to understand him. After a few weeks he barely noticed when lines were crossed. They were clever about it. He laughed once, properly laughed, then stopped. He would never repeat that joke in the pub. They'd never understand it. Or that it wasn't mean, or hateful, it was just funny.
It's not punching down if you're a victim too.