Illustration by Radio 15Tip By Malia Wollanordering. This time, I boycotted the ser-
vice for a month, and it felt excellent.
No one is too good for a grudge. In
the ‘‘Iliad,’’ Apollo infl icts a plague on
the Achaeans because they disrespect-
ed his priest. King Henry VIII upended
his country’s relationship with Catholi-
cism, one could argue, over a beef with
the pope. Every Taylor Swift album is a
series of grudges set to music.
Let me be clear about terms: A grudge
is not a resentment. Sure, they’re made of
the same material — poison — but while
resentment is concentrated, a grudge is
watered down, drinkable and refresh-
ingly eff ervescent, the low-calorie lager
to resentment’s bootleg grain alcohol.
Resentments are best suited for major
mistreatment: the best friend who ran
away with your wife, the parents who
pressured you into a career you told
them you hated, the ex who emptied
your checking account. Grudges, how-
ever, work best in response to small and
singular harms and annoyances: the
neighbor who parked in front of your
driveway, the cashier who charged you
for a drink you never ordered. Did some-
one truly, existentially wrong you? Don’t
waste your time growing a grudge — save
it for something pettier.
Which is to say: The best grudges are
small, persistent and powerful, like an ant
hauling a twig. And they thrive with the
aid of distance and time. In 10th grade,
my chemistry teacher off ered extra credit
to anyone who wrote and performed a
song about the periodic table. I wrote the
song; I performed it for class; she decided
against giving me the extra points. Only
recently did I accept that what I feel for
that teacher is not anger or resentment or
shame — it’s a grudge. If it sounds as if I’m
withholding critical details, of course I’m
withholding critical details! Decontextu-
alized stories are such stuff as grudges
are made on. The point is I have no evi-
dence that my chemistry teacher sees the
wrongness of her position all those years
ago — and in that expanse is where my
grudge continues to squat.
There was, for me, an inciting incident.
Two years ago I came out as nonbinary
and started using they/them pronouns. I
was initially a font of forgiveness for every-
one who misgendered me: the roommate
who remarked on my ‘‘masculine energy,’’
the cis friend who questioned whether I
really was trans.
But when a year passed and it kept
happening, I started to think of the
immense eff ort it took for me to come
out, and of how the misgenderers
seemed to be acting as if it hadn’t even
happened. I didn’t want to cut people
out of my life for one-off comments;
most often they were honest mistakes,
born of ignorance or confusion. Glib
jokes weren’t worth my bitterness.
That’s how I discovered my capacity for
holding grudges. By expecting people
to treat me how I want to be treated,
and remembering when they do not — a
simple little grudge, nothing as serious
as a resentment — I reaffi rm my identity
and protect my self-worth from those
who misgender me.
Last spring, a woman exiting a taxi
cab doored me off my bike, and I fl ippedheadfi rst into the street. When I stood
up, little lights fl ickered in front of my
face. I tried to roll my bike, but my front
wheel wobbled. I know what you’re
thinking: Oh boy, here comes a grudge.
Not so fast. The woman and I talk-
ed it out. She was exceptionally sorry,
and soon I felt bad for being angry with
her. She had just gotten home from a
job interview; she rarely took cabs. She
paid me $60 to replace my wheel. I don’t
begrudge her. She apologized; she paid
retribution. At urgent care, a few hours
later, the doctor gave me a clean bill of
health. ‘‘It’s a shame you can’t sue the
woman who hit you,’’ she said. I thought,
Does she really peg me as the type of per-
son who sues? Right away, I felt a grudge
beginning to form. I haven’t returned to
that urgent care since.How to Survive an
Avalanche‘‘The snow breaks all around you like a
pane of glass,’’ says Karl Birkeland, direc-
tor of the U.S. Forest Service’s National
Avalanche Center in Bozeman, Mont.
And when it does, listen for what Birke-
land calls ‘‘a whumpf sound,’’ as the slab
of snow fractures. Don’t wait to see what
happens. Try to fi nd solid ground by mov-
ing to the edge of the fl ow or digging into
the stable base layer using your hands, ski
edges or poles. If you are swept away, do
everything possible to maneuver yourself
toward the top of the debris. ‘‘If you get
buried, you want to be shallow so your
friends can dig you out,’’ Birkeland says.
In the United States, 37 people died
in avalanches last winter, most of them
backcountry skiers, snowboarders andsnowmobilers. If you plan to explore
ungroomed snowy areas on or below
slopes steeper than 30 degrees, go to
Avalanche.org and check the conditions
(wind and new snow tend to exacerbate
risk). Don’t go alone. Equip yourself
with an avalanche beacon, a probe and
a shovel. Consider buying a pricey ava-
lanche airbag, which infl ates and helps
buoy you up to the surface of the tum-
bling snow. Take a safety course.
Inside the whirling whiteness, you
might lose your sense of direction. If the
snow doesn’t strip off your gear, it will
drag you down; wear releasable bind-
ings and keep your wrists out of your
pole straps in avalanche terrain. Try to
get your feet pointed downhill, belly
up, fl ailing your arms in a backstroking
motion. ‘‘It’s more like active struggling
than swimming,’’ says Birkeland, who
was caught in his fi rst avalanche as a
21-year-old ski patroller in Utah.
If you don’t die from the blunt force of
hitting a tree or a rock, and your fellow
skiers can dig you out in under 10 minutes,
you have about a 90 percent chance of
surviving an avalanche. As the avalanche
begins to slow, vigorously move one hand
in front of your face to create an air pocket
(once stopped, you will feel as if you’re
encased in concrete). At the same time,
punch skyward with your other hand.
‘‘There are a lot of people who get found
in avalanches with just a hand sticking up
out of the snow,’’ Birkeland says.Grudges are
small, persistent
and powerful,
like an ant
hauling a twig.Alex McElroy
is the author of
‘‘Th e Atmospherians,’’
a New York Times
Editors’ Choice.