scam
Most people who read my blog know me first and foremost as an author. So they are surprised when they learn that I do other things as well. (And conversely, those whose first dealings with me center on one of those other areas are always surprised to find that I’m also an author.)
Well, one of those other things I do is designing information systems. I’ve done this since I was a child and home computers first came out. But as far this story is concerned, here’s the simple version: I build fancy stuff with spreadsheets. Often, it’s stuff that few other people can figure out. And for that reason, I always have clients who seek me out and pay me well for this work (which I fit in between my writing and marketing and mentoring and…)
You might think these two worlds are incongruous, but in my mind, they’re just different ways of helping people. And I am passionate about infusing both with core values such as kindness.
To that end, I choose to donate a little time each week as I’m able to helping answer posts on a couple of free online forums. Typically, I can only volunteer about a half hour or so per week; but I can get a lot done in that time, considering that the forums are designed to help people with relatively small stuff. A little knowledge sharing here. A formula tweak there.
Recently, I read a forum post from someone who appeared to be located in Romania, and who was requesting spreadsheet help. But in assessing things, what he required wasn’t small stuff. It was a highly customized, time-intensive solution (i.e., real work).
Usually, I’ll just pass over such posts or suggest that the person consider hiring a developer. In this particular case, however, I made the choice to “break my rule” and try to help the guy out anyway. You see, I’ve been especially aware lately of the need for tenacious worldwide kindness. And while it wouldn’t bring about world peace, going the extra mile for this stranger in Bucharest seemed a good opportunity to put feet to my convictions.
Still, it was a bit tricky. Sharing complex solutions on a free forum would create unrealistic future expectations for site visitors. In addition, I can’t offer in a free public forum the same level of complex work that my private clients pay me for.
But my mind was made up. I was going to help this guy (I’ll call him “Ivo” here).
Since Ivo’s shared spreadsheet contained his email address, I reached out to him privately rather than through the public forum. I introduced myself. I explained essentially what I’ve shared with you here: that I am a longtime forum contributor, that the help he required went beyond what I could provide through the free forum, but that I was willing to help him at no cost if he would simply share a copy of the sample spreadsheet with me.
Some hours later, his email reply popped up.
As I try to keep this blog family friendly, I’ll have to do some censoring:
“You bet. You [#&%@!] poor [*!@~$] scammer, eat [&$^#%]. Maybe that’s more useful to support your laughable existence.”
Here, I’d offered him free work —work I’d have charged any other client $150 for—and this was his response?
What would you have done at this point, if you had been me?
*****
I won’t lie. My initial reaction was to bristle. Hey, I’m human, just like you.
I mean, I owed this guy nothing. I didn’t need to help him in the first place. He wasn’t a paying client. And I would certainly have been well within my “rights” to dismiss him at this point. Just one more self-absorbed, entitled jerk in the world.
Shrug it off. Press “Delete.” Move on. Right?
Instead, right after that initial sense of self flared up at Ivo’s response—in the next moment, where choice begins—I was given a good dose of my own advice from previous books:
“Humility is a strength, not a weakness.”
“Focus on the person, not the problem.”
“Kindness still works.”
Add to this that I’m just about to release my third book, Alternate Reality (just released: April 2022!). As part of the editing process, I’ve read through the entire thing about ten times by now. And that has meant being intensely confronted with even more of my own words, including this new piece of shared advice:
“Instead of thinking the worst about people,
wonder the best.”
Right about the time I was reading Ivo’s email, you might imagine that I was applying this bit of advice to him. “Wow, here I am going the extra mile to be kind to a stranger, and he replies with such rudeness, accusing me of being a scammer?” But rather than thinking in terms of his choices, I found myself considering my own.
Would I think the worst of this guy based on his rude response? Or would I practice what I preach and make the choice to wonder the best about him?
I chose to wonder the best. I shifted my focus from what he had done—to why he might have done it. And that brought a new response: empathy.
I responded to Ivo’s email. I told him that I understood why he might be skeptical; after all, the world is a weird place sometimes. I offered him four different means of verifying who I was, for his own peace of mind, and again extended the offer of help.
I’d like to tell you that the clouds parted, that birds started chirping and that a swell of rhapsodic music began to play. Alas, it did not. My heartfelt email was ignored.
Surely, now was the time to dust off my hands and forget about this guy. I mean, you can lead a horse to water, but you can’t make him drink. And I want to be exceedingly clear here: that is true. As had been the case from the start, I owed this stranger nothing. I would not have been a bad person to walk away. And on the flip side, I wasn’t earning any cosmic brownie points if I chose to stick with it. All I can tell you is that, at the time, I felt compelled to try once more.
After a few days, I emailed Ivo again. I told him that I wondered if his skepticism was based in personal circumstances that had burnt him. And so, rather than continuing with my request for a shared spreadsheet, I worked out the entire complex formula in a spreadsheet of my own and then copied and pasted it directly into the email for him. I carefully explained how to implement it on his own sheet, asking only that he not post the formula publicly, so that I would not have that conflict of interest with other paying clients. I ended the email expressing my hope that this act of kindness might help restore his faith in humanity, even if only in some small way.
No birds chirping. No clouds parting. No music playing.
Instead, Ivo took my formula and did exactly what I’d asked him not to do: he posted it on the public forum. What’s more, he asked the larger community of volunteers there to confirm his earlier assumption that I was a scammer, and that this was malicious code. And to top it off, he implied in this public forum that I’d tried to get money out of him.
I’ll admit, my resolve to be kind was fraying around the edges at this point.
But I replied to his now public commentary as gently (yet directly) as I could. I reminded him that he could click my name link and be taken to the same profile I’d already sent him via email as one of four different means of verification. I asserted that I’d made very clear that my offer of help was free with no strings attached. I told him that I felt he was now just digging his heels in, committed to somehow proving that his initial assumption about me was true: that I was, in fact, a scammer. I told him that I couldn’t recall ever having worked so hard to give someone a free gift.
And then I remembered another piece of advice from The Best Advice So Far:
“Tenacious love expressed with creativity
can work wonders.”
It doesn’t always. But it can.
Allowing that "love" can be applied in both an individual and humanitarian sense, I determined to do the least likely thing.
I set aside my self-imposed rule of not posting complex work on the public forum, went into his publicly shared spreadsheet and implemented my full solution for him there, so that he could see with his own eyes that it was producing exactly the complex result he was hoping for.
I added one more comment, once again wishing him well and hoping that this might somehow restore in him a little faith in humanity.
And then, satisfied that I’d truly done all that was within the realm of my own choice to do, I let it go and moved on.
*****
The next day, I got a ding alerting me that Ivo had replied in the forum.
“Your solution works perfectly. I misread you and your motives. I owe you an apology.”
I’ll admit, I wasn’t expecting that.
Yet as nice as that was, something still felt unresolved. Empathy kicked in again. I was aware that if other forum contributors read the exchange, they might avoid offering Ivo help on any future posts of his. So I offered a path to a “clean slate”—figuratively and literally. I suggested that he back through all of his comments and delete them, after which I would do the same. I’d already spent five times my weekly allotment of donated forum time on this one issue, but this seemed important.
Within a day, he had done just that: deleted all of his comments. I followed suit. Clean slate achieved.
Cue the singing birds.
But it didn’t stop there.
Two days later, I received an email reply from Ivo. Turns out, he’s from Latvia, not Romania. He apologized again and asked if he might get a second chance to undo that negative first impression he’d made.
He said he actually considered himself to be a kind and helpful person. He recalled to me the story of a woman he’d helped at a coffee shop late one night. In his words:
She told me she was an Uber driver and had just crashed. For some reason, she had no money and no phone. In addition to losing her only means of income, she mentioned that she also had cancer in her legs, and at one point she started crying. She asked for some cash and promised that she would give it back the next day at the nearby museum where she worked as a guard. We ended up walking to the ATM together, and I withdrew a hundred bucks. I gave it to her and she cried again a little, hugged me and thanked me enormously. It felt very good to be helpful to somebody in a great need!
And he never saw her again. No such person worked at the museum.
It had all been a scam.
Oh, and in case you're wondering (as I did) about how Uber and "bucks" match up with Latvia, this all happened to Ivo during his first and only trip to the United States. It happened in Washington, D.C.—where Ivo had had to make an emergency diversion to the Latvian embassy. You see, upon arrival in California, thieves had broken into Ivo's car and stolen everything they could get at, including his passport. Still, despite his own troubles, there he was trying to help this "poor woman" at the coffee shop.
You see, Ivo really wasn’t an awful, self-centered, ungrateful person. He was a nice guy who had just been hurt one time too many before I came along.
But the kindness I’d shown actually had turned the tide inside him. Again in his own words:
I think this experience will stick with me and will teach me a good lesson in the future as well.
Ivo and I have been talking back and forth for a little while now, having terrific conversations about stuff that matters. As it turns out, we have a lot in common. Yet we’re also learning from one another. Stretching our perspectives. And we’re just having fun getting to know one another.
Is kindness always rewarded with a happily-ever-after ending? Nope.
Will some people turn out to be as mean as they at first appeared? Yes.
Are scammers still out there scamming? They are.
But what, then? Should we all decide to live within the confines of our own little self-protective bubbles?
To never show spontaneous kindness again, because of those who might take advantage of it?
To just give up on hope? On humanity?
To me, that seems like the biggest scam of all.
Here’s another tidbit from The Best Advice So Far:
“Whatever you choose to do,
do it without expectations,
simply because you believe in doing it.”
Where that limit lies for each person and in each situation will vary. But my encounter with Ivo serves as yet another reminder that “you always have a choice.”
A choice to look beyond the what to the why.
A choice to focus on the person and not the problem.
A choice to trade thinking the worst for wondering the best.
Quite often, I’ve found, those “best wonderings” will be closer to the truth.
the builders
I was wakened from a sound sleep by the ungodly grinding of a saw cutting through what sounded like concrete or metal right outside my bedroom wall. The whole place shook, setting the nearby jar candles to skittering. It was immediately clear that this was not going to be a situation solved by fingers in the ears or pillows over the head. So I got up.
Just when I thought things couldn’t get any worse, there was a loud crunching and a thunk.
That sounds like it’s right in the house, I thought. And then the noise suddenly cut off. Moments later there was a knock at the door. I opened it to find one of the construction guys there wearing grubby jeans, a tank top and a backward ball cap. His ears were studded and gauged, and one tattooed arm leaned against the wall of the stairwell that leads up to my floor. “Hey, um… what’s on the inside of the wall we’re working on?”
I knew something very bad had happened. “My bedroom,” I informed him. “Bedroom closet to be exact.”
I led him through the entryway and into the bedroom. I live in an old farmhouse with open closets, so I had used the bedroom closet for storage, placing a low white bench with drawers and storage cubbies in front of it on top of which a full-length mirror leaned back against the door opening. I took down the mirror.
The workers had broken through the outside wall into the room, a five-foot strip of the wall revealing daylight beyond. But that wasn’t what caused the sharp inhale or widening of my eyes.
It was the horde of ants covering the walls… and everything else inside. Coolers. Lawn chairs. Luggage. Bedding. I could get at none of it until I removed the plastic storage bins. But those, as it happened, were impaled on a large bolt that had come through the wall. Meanwhile, the ants were happily beginning to explore outside the closet.
As this isn’t really about the incident, I’ll montage. Cracked bins ripped through. Running back and forth to the fire exit stairs with closet contents, even as ants ran up my arms and dropped into the other rooms. Workers doing impromptu extermination with a shop-vac. The cloying fog of Raid fumes permeating.
Throughout the ordeal, I’ll admit that I growled aloud more than once. And since the construction worker was doing his best to contain the situation, I wanted to be clear that my irritation was with the situation and not with him. I said as much to him, followed by stating aloud some of my own advice (more for my sake than his): “These are the times when I have to ask myself, ‘Will this matter in a year?’ And if the answer is no—which it is in this case—then it’s not worth wasting time in the present getting up in arms about it.”
Thus began my conversation with the builder.
If you were to have driven by my house and seen this guy standing outside on his ladder, swinging his hammer, you probably wouldn’t have given him much thought. Just another common laborer. And if you had noticed him beyond this peripheral glance, you might have made assumptions about him based on his job, clothes and tattoos—assumptions about his background, lifestyle, intelligence, education level, worldview.
But allow me to tell you what I learned about him.
As I say, the temporary crisis didn’t matter in the grand scheme of things. However, mere minutes into our interaction together, we found ourselves talking openly about stuff that did matter.
His name is Zach. He’d been raised by two women. One was his mother. The other was his grandmother, a woman for whom he now happily served as a primary caregiver. Every day. Like clockwork. His expression of love and respect for his mom and grandmother, and his happiness to help, were among the first things he told me.
Zach shared with me some of the pain he experienced growing up and the problems it led to in his early adulthood. But he’d worked hard to overcome those issues.
He’s a voracious reader who enjoys deep conversations about life.
In fact, he’s been having an ongoing conversation online with a young Muslim man from the Middle East. This distant friend had shared his desire to visit the United States, but expressed his concerns about how he might be treated because of his ethnicity or religion. Zach was honest with him. “Some people here will be suspicious and act on fear. But many, many won’t.” He invited the young man to stay with him personally should he make the trip, promising to introduce him to good people and places.
Zach is educated. Prior to being a builder, Zach had been the director of a public school program for kids on the autism spectrum or with other behavior-related challenges. He told me about some of his students over the years, adding that he’d finally decided he needed to take a break because his compassion for the kids was starting to get the better of him even during his off time. He felt he needed to do something a little more physical and less emotional for a while.
This had led to his current job. And his favorite part of that job… was the math. I’m sure he’s told me five or six times during our conversations in the last couple of days, smiling despite himself each time, “I love numbers almost as much as I love people!”
Two mornings later, Zach and a co-worker were back bright and early to continue repairs. I threw on jeans and some flip-flops and ran out to tell them that the exterminator was due back at 8:00 and might be spraying from the exterior, which would mean that construction might be delayed a couple hours.
As we all stood around awaiting more information by phone, we got to talking once again. The other worker was a stocky, heavily bearded guy with his knit cap pulled low. Even wearing his dusty mechanic-blue jacket, tattoos were clearly visible, rivaling Zach’s. If not for his clothing, you could easily imagine him having been a Viking downing tankards of grog at some alehouse of yore. He flicked the ash off his cigarette and took another puff.
I introduced myself. His name is Doug. He shook my hand and the three of us chatted for a few minutes.
Zach and Doug then took off for a bit as the exterminator arrived and did his thing. Once they returned, Zach went into the bedroom to assess what needed to happen inside the closet. A few days earlier, based on our conversation, I’d given him a copy of my first book, The Best Advice So Far; and I’d just handed him a copy of the newly-released TRIED & (Still) TRUE. Doug was immediately curious. “You write books? Cool. What’s it about? Where can I get one?” As Zach continued with his tape measure, Doug and I got another chance to talk a bit.
Here again, one might make assumptions about the kinds of things “someone like Doug” might talk about in the few minutes standing with a stranger in a hallway while on a job. You’d likely be wrong.
I could immediately tell that Doug has a quick wit and sense of humor. Once we got to talking, he laughed often.
Doug also plays in a band. If you went only by his black “DOOM” T-shirt, depicting what looks like someone trying to pull demons out of hell, you probably wouldn’t guess that his primary instrument is upright bass or that his band, Cactus Attack, finds it tricky to schedule their tours on account of two of his other band mates being full-time teachers.
I handed Doug his own copies of the books. He read the backs, brows intent. “This is my favorite kind of book. I love philosophy. Thanks, man.” From there, Doug shared with me his observations about how people too often seem to be looking for differences between themselves and others rather than similarities. "I talk to people about this all the time,” he said. “You’ve got to slow down and make time to get to know people and their story before you make judgments. Even people who do things you might strongly disagree with usually have a reason that makes sense to them, and I think it’s valuable for us to be able to understand those reasons.” We talked about religious cults, terrorists and factions within modern feminism, with Doug passionately making the case for empathy and education at each turn.
Later, when the three of us were in the mix again talking, I suggested the word “malapropism” to describe a habit Zach said he sometimes falls into, at which point Doug interjected, “Actually, with you, Zach, it’s usually malaphors, not malapropisms.” This was interspersed with his thoughts on Socrates and Plato, peppered with other underused words such as pedagogy.
There was clearly much more to both of these great guys than might at first meet the eye.
Though I say this often, it’s worth repeating: names matter. By asking someone’s name and giving your own, you open doors of possibility. So often, if we aren’t careful, we can get to treating people as little more than background noise, obstacles to overcome or means to achieving an end. Names serve as a reminder that the other people all around us are just that—real people, with lives as full, interesting, meaningful and complex as our own.
In addition, while most of us would agree if asked that one should “never judge a book by its cover,” it takes intention and consistency to actually live it. And it’s been my observation that the standard most used in judging book covers is little more than “does that cover look enough like my own?” I’ll quote Doug here from our conversation: “What a boring and small life it is to surround yourself only with people who are exactly like you.”
To quote Bill Nye the Science Guy, “Everyone you will ever meet knows something you don’t.” If we truly embrace this, the world and the people in it become an endless source of connection, fascinating stories, learning and growth.
My friend Chad often says, “Follow your natural curiosity.” I agree, 100%. However, I think so often anymore that we forget how to be curious. We leave it behind, somewhere back in the ether of childhood. As we get older, we allow that natural curiosity to be replaced with fear. Yet the more we give in to this, the smaller our worlds become.
In fact, if there were one takeaway here, it would be to rediscover your curiosity. And then follow it.
You’ll encounter new stories and change your own story in the process. Zach and Doug are two recent reminders of the benefits of doing this, here in my own little corner of the world. Now I encourage you to go find out who your own next surprise might be.
even though
I was talking with a friend recently. I’ll call him Ralph here. Ralph’s relationship with his brother has been on the outs of late, and he was trying to understand what had happened and what he might be able to do at this point to improve the relationship.
I asked a series of questions. This revealed that the rift had started when Ralph had voiced his stand (e.g., opinions, religious views, moral position and, dare I say, judgment) on some of his brother’s recent personal decisions.
I asked Ralph, “How do you think you’d handle it if you were in the mix with a flamboyant gay guy?”
At first, Ralph looked bewildered, like he thought I hadn’t heard him clearly or that I was having a flashback to my famed Amnesia Episode of 1999. But trusting that I usually have a point to my rabbit trails, he answered. “Well, a few years ago, I actually was in the mix with a flamboyant gay man that I needed to interact with at an annual event. And we got along great.” It was clear from the phrasing that this was one of very few such people Ralph had ever known, if not the sole example.
I continued, “So, would you say it would feel comfortable for you to use the words ‘even though’ in describing your relationship with that person? For instance, could you easily complete this sentence, ‘I liked the guy even though…’?”
Ralph straightened up, answering quickly and confidently. “Yes, absolutely. I feel comfortable saying that I liked him even though he was gay, flamboyant and married to a man.”
The slump to his shoulders told me that he wasn’t expecting what I said next.
“I thought that might be the case, Ralph. And that’s a problem.”
*****
I love words.
There’s an inherent power in words. The right word or phrasing used at the right time can earn a first date or seal the impossible business deal. Likewise, a word used carelessly or at the wrong time can start a war.
My curiosity is continually piqued by connotation: the implied meaning or feelings that become associated with a word or phrase over time among a particular group of people. One example I cite often is rocking chair. Here’s the dictionary listing:
rock·ing chair
/ˈräkiNG ˌCHe(ə)r /
noun
a chair mounted on rockers or springs, so as to rock back and forth
Nothing particularly earth-shattering for a native speaker to learn there.
However, answer the following questions to yourself:
- What is a rocking chair made of?
- What color is a rocking chair?
- Who sits in a rocking chair?
Cultural connotation all but guarantees that the majority of people will form an instant mental image paired with the following connotations:
- Rocking chairs are made of wood.
- Rocking chairs are brown or white.
- Elderly people (usually “grandmothers”) or young mothers sit in rocking chairs.
If you “saw” something different, it’s either because you yourself had or have a rocking chair that came to your mind—or because you are simply trying to be contrary.
However, there is nothing about the actual definition of rocking chair that in any way prohibits it from being plastic, being purple with green polka-dots, or being used by a teenaged boy.
Ignoring the connotations of language causes us to falter in our communication (or to choose willful deceit).
With this in mind, let’s dig a little deeper into that two-word transitional phrase that had my friend Ralph feeling so confused: “even though.”
*****
Looking up “even though” in a dictionary, here’s basically what you’ll find:
e·ven though
/ˈe ˌvən ˈTHō /
conj. phrase
despite the fact that
Not very helpful.
Here’s where diving a little deeper gets interesting. And please know…I realize that not everyone is a linguistic nerd like I am, so I’ll try not to get too crazy here.
At the most basic level, “even though” shows contrast. In this way, it fits into the family of meanings similar to “but” in logical flow.
Here’s the example sentence given by Merriam-Webster:
“She stayed with him even though he often mistreated her.”
We have two facts here:
- He often mistreated her.
- She stayed with him.
The phrase “even though” is used to join the two facts while adding a logical (or in this case illogical) connection.
What would be considered the parallel or expected or natural course of action resulting from “He often mistreated her”? I think most of us would consider it to be something along the lines of “She left him.”
By pairing the two facts with “even though,” we show a contrast between the actions of the two people—and, in fact, between the people themselves. We’re not concerned in this sentence with exploring why she acted as she did. But by using “even though,” we’ve essentially created opposites:
abuser / victim
too mean / too nice
As such, while it’s not expressly stated in the sentence, “even though” asserts the following strong implication:
She did not often mistreat him.
In other words, if the speaker of the sentence knew that the woman had also mistreated the man, to use “even though” would have been an intentional act of deceit aimed at making it seem that she had not.
Coming full circle, I’ll say it again: “even though” shows contrast.
Opposite qualities or expectations.
Yeah, so?
Well, let’s revisit Ralph’s reply to my probing question:
“Yes, absolutely. I feel comfortable saying that I liked him even though he was gay, flamboyant and married to a man.”
And here’s the diagnostic element. Since using “even though” felt comfortable to Ralph, he had set up a foundational separation between himself and the other man. In fact, he’d created logical opposites, not merely “differences.”
Make sure you grasp that. It’s key.
When we say (or think, or would feel comfortable saying or thinking)…
“I [nice / positive / right thing] even though that person ________________,”
…we’ve revealed that we believe whatever fills that blank is not nice / not positive / not right.
We are in short saying, “I am good but you are bad.”
Certainly, in some cases, that dichotomy is true and accurate:
“Nora loved her brother even though he had murdered a man.”
It would be good and kind and noble of Nora to continue to love her brother. And we would consider that her brother was, at least in this regard, not good or kind or noble.
Or consider this one:
“I love my kids even though they are messy.”
That’s terrific. But make no mistake: a contrast—an opposite comparison—is being made here. I am not messy (which, by implication, is the right way to be), so it’s mighty big of me to overlook the flaws of my kids. The use of “even though” casts me in a favorable light and, therefore, my kids in an ugly one.
The problem comes in when we deceive ourselves into thinking that our expressions of love or acceptance for someone “even though”… is somehow an indicator that we’ve become a beacon of true equality. In fact, it reveals quite the opposite about us.
So when someone who identifies as Christian says, “I get along fine with my neighbors, even though they are Muslim,” it’s really saying…
“I am right and good and so big a person that I can get along with those wrong and bad people.”
And when my friend Ralph expressed, “I liked him even though he was gay, flamboyant and married to a man,” he was really saying…
“I—being a straight person of reserved demeanor whose family is doing things the only correct and acceptable way—am by default the moral standard; and yet I'm such a good person that I found it within myself not to mention the flaws and wrongness of that other morally depraved person who really should change to be more like me.”
Still not convinced? Then please accept a challenge.
If you don’t think this type of comparison is being made when you have an “even-though” view of others—if your claim is that it does somehow reflect true equality and that I'm just nitpicking—try flipping your statements around so that you are on the other side of “even though”:
“My kids love me even though I…”
“The Muslim family next door gets along with me even though I…”
(And if you're a teen, or you are Muslim, put your parent or Christian neighbor first in those examples.)
When I asked Ralph to swap the order of his “even though,” here’s how he completed it:
“My flamboyantly gay associate liked me even though I…am a self-righteous and judgmental jerk.”
Kudos to you, Ralph. You’re on the road to enlightenment.
The fact is, “even though” statements feel bizarre where a mindset of true equality exists. Consider:
“We have been friends since childhood even though she has brown hair.”
Weird, right? But why? Well, the reason such a statement likely feels off to you is that, in your heart of hearts, you truly don’t care about hair color. You may notice it. You may even appreciate or admire it. But at the core of your being, where truth lies, hair color simply holds no connotations of right or wrong, good or evil. It just is.
True equality draws no lines. But neither does it draw attention.
True equality is invisible to itself. It forgets that it even exists.
“Even though” isn’t just about the words you happen to say aloud.
It’s an attitude, a mindset, a revelation of self.
"Even though" is a worldview.
And true equality finds little use for it.
choice: the wall
In my last post, I invited you to celebrate with me the successful completion of a yearlong writing goal I’d set for myself in 2017.
Since that post, I’ve allowed myself a break from all things blog. It was strategic. I knew that if I were to just continue on writing at the previously set “goal pace,” I would have felt locked into it rather than having been able, as I did, to have closure on that goal—and to then begin a new one.
Well, today is the day I begin that new goal where this blog is concerned.
As my focus turns toward writing the next book—currently entitled Tried and (Still) True—I want to be sure that I continue to give the concepts in The Best Advice So Far adequate development. They are, after all, timeless—just as true and life-changing now as they were at the start of things.
I imagine it’s much the same as having a second or third child: being sure, with all the time and attention that the new addition requires, to continue to love and foster and invest in the firstborn.
An idea coalesced during my short writing break: Why not revisit the advice in every chapter of The Best Advice So Far again, but from an as-yet-unexplored angle or with new stories?
As soon as the notion hit me, it just felt somehow right. Familiar and yet at the same time fresh and exciting. And so, for most if not all of 2018, that will be my new goal and focus. I’m not committing myself to stick stringently to plan, if something outside the express realm of the first book should happen along the way and burn to be told. But I believe it will make for a good guiding force.
*****
Sometime back in the early fall, I caught wind of a great deal on a three-day cruise out of Miami to the Bahamas. Little did I know at the time, when I booked a cabin for the MLK holiday weekend, that winter in New England would be plunging the region into weeks of sub-zero temperatures. During the worst of it, temperatures dropped to -19°F with wind chill affecting -35°F. Attempting such simple tasks as pumping gas (should one have run out of the house quickly without donning gloves) was not only painful but downright dangerous. And try as I might—whether by standing awkwardly with my toes tucked under the old-fashioned radiators in my home, or standing in the shower several times a day for no other reason than warming up—I was never quite able to thaw the blocks of ice that had replaced my feet.
So when the day finally came, I was beyond ready to walk barefoot on sun-warmed grass or sand, to squint with hand-shaded eyes at a too-bright sky—and to bask in the profligate luxury of feeling too hot.
As it turned out, the day I left for Florida, my own home area had a freakish warm streak approaching 60°, while Florida saw a relative cold spell, with one night dipping into the 40s. Still, their “chilly” was shorts-and-flip-flops weather for me.
The cruise was all I had hoped it would be, a real soul restorer. And yet, again, I was surprised by the abundance of generally bad behavior around me.
Before we even set sail, during the mandatory safety drills which required that all hands (and guests) be on deck, many people were disruptive and outright rude to the staff: crying out angrily in the middle of instructions that it was taking too long, or that they were bored, or that the (extremely patient) muster leaders were keeping them from the bar and drinks they had paid for.
I frequently passed people grumbling (to whom, I wondered) about the overcast sky.
Several cruisers with whom I tried to engage in friendly small talk while waiting in a line or on a transfer ferry (not, God forbid, keeping them from the bar or their drinks) were unnecessarily aloof—even dismissive.
Late one night, after a full day of fun on shore and a posh dinner in the formal dining room, I came up to the main deck and slid, smiling, into one of the large hot tubs. I asked the two other guests sharing the spa—a father and his college-aged daughter—how they were enjoying their cruise. They immediately began to complain:
…about the weather,
…about the “small” size of the (eleven-story) ship,
…about the “inferior quality” of the food.
Within fifteen minutes, able to tolerate it no longer, I politely extricated myself from the conversation in search of cheerier company.
Mind you, there were numerous dining options available at all times, each allowing all-you-can-eat access to, I dare say, several hundred varied and exquisitely prepared foods.
You’ll have to trust me when I say that I’m being generous to a fault as I describe the rude behavior of many aboard the ship. More than once, it was not only sad but uncomfortable, even for me.
*****
On Sunday morning, we docked in Nassau, Bahamas.
It’s not a beach sort of place. Rather, you exit the ship and are immediately greeted by a cacophony of urgent voices crying out from just beyond the iron fence:
“You! You! Taxi! Taxi!”
“City tour! Come now! I show you the best places only!”
“Beads! Necklaces! Good price, mon!”
Security guards usher cruise guests out of the melee and into a long, narrow—and carefully presented—strip of shopping options, where one can buy anything from Gucci watches and handbags to Vera Wang shoes at prices that hint at (if not outright tout) the use of slave labor.
Walking beyond the shops funnels the wayward invariably toward Queen’s Staircase.
The tall, steep set of stairs leads upward to—more shops on the periphery of what alleges to be the central attraction: Fort Fincastle.
For those who chose to look only as far as the wall or back toward the port, it’s idyllic:
But turn the other direction—to where the majority of the island lay beyond that wall—and the illusion quickly evaporates.
I stood on the barricade and hopped down a few feet to a square landing made of cracked concrete. From this perch, drifts of garbage became visible, piling up yards high against the wall. Peering through the nearest thicket of palms, I was able to just make out a shanty. A young woman slumped on the porch, watching a naked child and a chicken totter about in the dirt. A rope drooped low to the ground, laden with a few articles of clothing hung out to air.
I had no interest in the veneer that had been set up for tourists. I wanted to know the real people of the island. So it was that my travel companion and I decided to venture over the wall and into the real Bahamas.
I can only describe the change as immediate and stark.
Whereas shops along the main drag by the port bustled with the day’s visitors, every building that appeared to have at one time been a place of business was dilapidated, defaced, boarded up. Closed.
It appeared at first that the other structures were abandoned as well. Crumbling walls. Trees through roofs. Bushes and tall grass growing up through rusted jalopies. Here or there, a scrawny chicken scratched at the dust. Feral cats rubbed skeletal ribs along graffiti-covered walls.
Where were the people?
A little further in and there began to be signs of life—voices of beauty heard and strong spirits felt, before their owners ever came into view.
Then, at long last, they emerged: the real people of the island.
A thin man with dreadlocks plodded off course and toward us on unsteady feet. It was the first islander to make contact, and we were in another country, outside the bounds deemed “safe” for travelers. What did he want?
When he reached us, he grinned warmly and offered an outstretched fist for a “bump.” We bumped.
::bump bump::
“Welcome to Bahamas, mon! Have a nice day!” he bellowed. We wished him the same and off he went to continue his trek.
A brightly dressed woman and child were next. My guess was that they were on their way to church. Again, they smiled and welcomed us to their island.
A young man waved from a doorway across the street.
Further in we went.
Before long, a police car pulled up alongside us. The window rolled down. The officer smiled. “You came from port?” We confirmed that, yes, we had. The officer continued, “I would suggest you turn back soon. This is a high crime area. Not safe, you know.” We thanked him for the information and on he drove.
Not wishing to tempt fate, we turned down a parallel side street.
We met Kenneth, who told us much about the recent political race in the Bahamas and about his love of American football.
The next street was blocked off with makeshift barricades, as broken pavement gave way to packed dirt and mud. Side-stepping deep puddles, we continued down the road anyway.
A few more strides brought us upon two elderly ladies with shorn heads and dressed in their night clothes, chatting with one another in the middle of the street. No sooner did they spy us than their faces cracked with beaming smiles with many missing teeth. “Hallo!” they cried, one of them reaching her hands out to take ours. “Welcome to Bahamas! A lovely day!” And we felt welcome.
We told them that we’d happened upon their little street when the police had warned us to turn back. “Bah!” cried the first woman, who introduced herself as Shari. “Bah!”
Her friend waved a dismissive hand. “The news lady, she tells the world that we are criminals” (this last bit sounding like creamy-nose). “She say that we are bad people. But we are not bad people.”
The first joined in again, addressing us with emphatic voice and large gestures. “You walk far, yes?”
“Yes, quite a ways,” we agreed.
“And did anyone harm you?”
We shook our heads, smiling.
“Did anyone rob you? Ask you for money or something? Are we robbing you now?”
“No, not at all,” we concurred. “Everyone has been very friendly and kind, including you both.”
“Yes! You see then. We are not criminals, bad people. We are nice people. We don’t care who comes here, what color is their skin or nothing. We just want people to be happy!” Shari’s raspy voice pealed, her final word stretched triple length:
Haaaaah-peeeee!
We all laughed aloud together as she continued to grip our hands as if she were our own grandmother.
“And look around you. Is this so terrible? This is a nice neighborhood we have! You see it with your own eyes, yes?”
We surveyed our surroundings once more. You would never see such poverty and unfit living conditions even in the worst of places in the United States.
“It’s a beautiful place with nice people and good neighbors like yourselves living here. Thank you for welcoming us and being so kind to us, even though we’re visitors.”
“Bah!” Shari cried again, beaming. “There are no strangers here. Only friends!”
I promised them that I would tell you all about them, their kindness and their beautiful island. And though they’ll never know it, I’m making good on that promise.
*****
Now, how is it that those with enough leisure time and excess money to take a luxury cruise with bountiful cuisine and endless entertainment—those who have everything—can find endless reasons for rudeness, disappointment and griping…
…while those who are among the poorest of the poor—those who have nothing—can live as though they have everything, exclaiming that their lives are filled with beauty and that everyone is their friend?
“You always have a choice.”
Therein lies the wall.
fear: two
The previous post wound up being a sort of flight of ideas on fear. I had no intention of taking it further than that when I hit “Publish” last week. But the theme of fear has continued to rear its … well … rather common head in the time since then. So it seems worthwhile to take another walk on the dark side.
*****
I wound up getting to the gym quite late last night — 4:15AM to be exact. (Yes, that was late, not early, considering my usual arrival is between midnight and 2:00.) As you might imagine, the place was pretty empty. Other than myself, there were only two people working out.
One of them was a woman. We were busy at opposite ends of the gym, but I noticed her. She was quite thin, perhaps in her mid to late fifties. Her gait was unsteady, hinting at a neuromuscular disease. And she was tearing the place up (in the best of ways). She moved non-stop between machines, taking only minimal breaks between sets before she was back at it.
By the time I moved that way to use the cables, she was on the mats doing bicycles (an ab workout) for durations that would make me cry. I thought about wandering over, introducing myself and telling her that she was putting me to shame. But she was wearing headphones; and so I kept my admiration to myself for the time being.
We both finished up about the same time. The sky was still black with just a hint of cobalt on the horizon as I headed out to the parking lot, only a few yards behind the woman. I walked a bit faster, thinking now might be a good time to introduce myself. Perhaps hearing my footsteps on the pavement, she cast a wide-eyed glance over her shoulder and then turned abruptly, quickening her own pace.
I decided to let the moment pass, heading for my car instead. By the time I got my things inside and was finally situated, the woman was in her own vehicle and slowly rounding the corner in front of me. Just then, she hit the Caution: Pedestrians crosswalk sign. There was a * thunk * as the plastic yellow tower tipped to the side and scraped along her rear fender before righting itself. She stopped, her face worried. She craned around backward but still couldn’t see what she’d hit.
I knew that getting out of the car and back in would be no mean feat for her. So I hopped out to tell her there was nothing to worry about, that there was no damage to the sign or her car. Our eyes met in her rearview mirror. Her brow furrowed more deeply, so I smiled and waved, moving toward the side of her car where she might be able to see me more clearly.
She gunned the gas, tires chirping, and hightailed it out of there.
As I stood there holding my good intentions, it felt odd to consider that anyone would see me as a threat — that I could ever strike fear into someone.
On the drive home, an interesting thought occurred to me. I wasn’t offended at the revelation. In fact, it made sense when I put myself into the woman’s shoes. But all the same, there it was, as plain as day…
I’d been stereotyped.
That is to say, muscled guys who approach woman after dark are up to no good.
In Logic, this belief is what’s called a universal categorical proposition. Here’s the For-Dummies version:
It’s all or nothing.
All muscled guys who approach women after dark have ill intent.
No muscled guys who approach women after dark have good intentions.
*****
Some parental axioms never seem to go out of style:
If you keep making that face, it’ll freeze that way.
As long as you live under my roof, you’ll abide by my rules.
Nothing good ever happens after midnight.
In the case of the latter, we find another all-or-nothing belief that’s somehow embedded itself into society. And yet when I subject this statement to even the most rudimentary of consideration, it falls apart pretty quickly.
As I mentioned, I work out after midnight, and that seems pretty good. Some of the best conversations I remember from across a lifetime have happened after midnight. Nearly every good song of mine was written after midnight. In fact, it’s fair to say that virtually all of my book The Best Advice So Far was also written after midnight. I’ve walked on the beach, planned surprise parties and dropped off items for charity all after midnight.
And yet, consider…
The terrorist attacks of 9/11. The Boston Marathon bombing. The recent Las Vegas killing spree, NYC rush-hour incident and Texas church massacre. Every school shooting. They all happened before midnight.
So, if they aren’t true, where do universal categorizations like “Nothing good ever happens after midnight” come from? How do they start? And why do they persist?
I’d like to proffer that the underlying cause of such unfounded beliefs and negative stereotypes is the same.
Fear.
Moreover, unpredictability appears to be a major ingredient in fear. You see, if something is unpredictable, then I can’t control it. And I need to feel like I’m in control. So I begin placing people and situations into black-and-white categories that at least allow me the illusion of predictability and control.
I cannot allow for “some” to exist outside the bounds of my categories, or even that “most” exist within them, because either would reintroduce that dreaded unpredictability.
And so, rather than face that uncertainty in life, we adhere strictly to “All” or “None.” It’s just easier that way.
If I can convince myself and others to buy into my system, I can be at peace again. So I tell my teens that “Nothing good ever happens after midnight,” because it feels like I now have a definitive line in the sand that will allow me to protect them and not to worry. As long as they are in before the carriage turns back into a pumpkin, nothing bad will ever happen to them. I can sleep. It’s simple.
It’s not true, mind you. But it’s simple.
*****
I mentioned Logic earlier in the post. It's probably on my mind more than usual because I’m helping a young friend of mine get through his college Logic class this semester.
The field of Logic is funny. It’s clearly stated that whether a premise is true or false is irrelevant. All that matters is the form of the argument. That is to say, if my premises were all true, and if that would make it impossible that my conclusion were false, then my argument is valid.
As such, the following is considered a valid argument by the rules of Logic:
All bankers are swindlers.
All swindlers are aliens.
Therefore, all bankers are aliens.
Oddly enough, if the premises contradict one another, the argument is considered valid by virtue of the loophole that since it’s impossible for me to make all the premises true, I can’t rule out that the conclusion might be true:
All dogs are pigs.
Some dogs are not pigs.
Therefore, dogs are human.
Yup, that’s considered a valid argument.
Before you label it all crazy talk, consider how often we take this approach when we construct our arguments about people and situations in real life.
Nothing good happens after midnight.
It is after midnight.
Therefore, whatever is happening is not good.
Or…
All muscled guys who approach women after dark are dangerous.
A muscled guy is approaching me, a woman, after dark.
Therefore, the guy is dangerous.
Likewise…
All white people, including police officers, are prejudiced against people of color.
All black people are lazy, out to steal jobs without hard work or merit.
All [Democrates/Republicans] are stupid.
All Muslims are radicals plotting to harm Americans.
All gay men are pedophiles.
All highly attractive people are shallow and self-absorbed.
None of this is true, of course. Not even close. But it’s simple.
And so, like those logicians, we convince ourselves that truth is irrelevant, as long as our premises validate the conclusion that will keep our sense of control intact.
You see, if I label it and categorize it, I can avoid it. I can stay on this side of the boundary, with them all on the other side. And I can feel safe. Protected. Justified. I can control it.
Please note, however, that Logic does go on to differentiate between arguments that are merely valid and those that are sound. That is, in order to be considered sound, an argument must both be valid and actually have true premises.
Well, given this new insight, none of the arguments above is sound.
Don’t get me wrong. I’ve had “vibes” about certain people or situations, a feeling that something wasn’t quite right. Often, I’ve trusted that hunch. And though I’ll never really know whether it was accurate, I do support trusting your gut — if and only if you’re sure that there are no underlying stereotypes already in place before such an encounter, ideas stemming from categorical fear or lack of understanding.
I guess what I’m inviting each of us to do today is to consider where we might be building walls that keep out people or opportunities in our life, and then to ask ourselves whether the arguments we make in defense of those walls are rooted in fear — or in truth.
For some real-life stories of stereotype-smashing encounters, check out the following posts:
brand you
This past Wednesday, I was invited to be a guest lecturer at Benjamin Franklin Institute of Technology in Boston, where I taught a group of opticians-in-the-making about branding and marketing.
I love teaching. And by all indications, I'm good at it. But as a rule, I’m more interested in people than I am in imparting information. As such, I found myself naturally sliding into the role of mentor throughout the two-and-a-half-hour class. Whether these students ever wound up becoming opticians or not, I wanted them to go away from our short time together thinking differently about life, themselves and how they interact with others.
It’s actually not all that big a stretch to get personal when talking about branding and marketing. After all, in essence, every single one of us is an individual brand.
That is, whether we like it or not — or are even aware of it — we are constantly engaging in the same core functions as any business where marketing is concerned. We face similar challenges. And we are therefore subject to many of the same “rules” concerning success or failure.
Maybe you rail against commercialism. Maybe it gets your blood up that I’d be using capitalistic terms as a comparison in interpersonal matters. And that’s all well and good. But I’m afraid it won’t exempt you from experiencing gains and losses all the same, based on the foundational principles that follow.
Or perhaps you’d claim that you really don’t give a flying leap what anyone else thinks about you. And that may be true. Nevertheless, just as any company operating with such a mindset would suffer negative consequences, so will an individual who doesn’t qualify that statement and adjust accordingly.
Allow me to share a few terms from my Wednesday class, as well as some thoughts on how they might apply to brand you.
brand
(noun) 1. a product or service manufactured by a particular company or other entity under a particular name.
You exist in tangible form. Moreover, you are available for public consumption (i.e., you share the world with other people). Therefore, you can be thought of as a product.
You come with intangible traits and actions that impact others. And so you are a service as well.
Due to the nature of choice, in the practical day-to-day sense, you are the maker of you. And the results of the choices you make become associated with your particular name.
Ergo, for all intents and purposes, you are a brand.
Celebrities and politicians aren’t the only ones who need to think about themselves as a brand.
It doesn’t matter whether you’re 3 or 93, consumers (i.e., other people) are sizing you up, making judgments. They’re forming opinions and sharing them liberally. And they’re deciding whether to engage with you — or to steer clear.
“Oh, come on,” you protest. “ ’Three or ninety-three’? Now you’re just being hyperbolic.”
Am I?
Consider the following:
“I feel badly that I keep evading Janice’s invitations for my Bradley to play with her Hayden. But I just don’t feel comfortable having Bradley exposed to that kind of bratty behavior. Bradley is a gentle child and Hayden is a little bully.”
“I could sit and talk with my neighbor Stanley for hours on end. He has so many interesting stories to tell and still knows how to laugh, even with his wife having passed away last year.”
“Some cranky blue-haired woman got up in my face after church this morning, shaking her finger and giving me an earful about my son’s new ear gauges. Not very Christian-like — and, frankly, none of her damn business. ‘Good morning to you, too, you mean old biddy!’”
In actuality, I’ve heard versions of each of these in the last week alone, having only changed enough details to avoid getting myself into trouble with people.
That means all of us in between 3 and 93 need to consider the implications of our brand on others out in the world as well.
Perhaps it will help to think about brand you as your personhood and the effects of your choices on those around you. And just as a company’s brand choices result in profit or loss, our own interpersonal choices come back to impact us in return, for good or for ill.
brand identity
(noun) 1. the unique characteristics for which a business or other entity wishes to be known, characterized in part by what sets them apart from other similar businesses or entities.
Some people think of a logo, color scheme and tagline as “brand identity.” In fact, some marketing writers say as much. But these things are just the outward symbols of something that is (or should be) decided before a business ever opens its doors.
Think of brand identity as the answers to these questions:
Who am I?
What is my driving purpose?
What are my non-negotiable principles?
What do I most want to be known for/as?
What sets me apart from others who may look similar to me on paper?
Bloggers, authors and life coaches may immediately grasp what I’m talking about. If you sound like everyone, you won’t reach anyone. Establishing a clear direction, niche and voice is vital.
Others of you may be thinking, “Well, I’m off the hook here. That’s all stuff outgoing ‘people-people’ have to worry about. I’m an introvert, so I’m quite happy to just blend in with the wallpaper.”
I’m here to tell you that there are even many brands of “quiet.” And which you are perceived to be … matters.
Some quiet people are wise. They are known as active listeners who merely reserve their words for when it really matters. So when they do speak, people listen.
Some quiet people are kind. They feel fulfilled working behind the scenes to share the things they bake, to write encouraging notes, to feed birds and tend gardens and beautify the world around them.
Some quiet people are aloof. They think of themselves as better than others. They are easily annoyed. And so they can’t be bothered to engage.
Some quiet people exude confidence even in their silence. Others remain quiet out of fear.
Some quiet people are depressed. Or angry.
Some are sociopaths.
It’s not about quietness. It’s about what’s behind it.
Introvert. Extrovert. Maybe a little of both. It’s irrelevant in terms of personal brand. Any Myers-Briggs profile can be a smashing success. And any can go down in flames. It’s not about personality type. It’s about choice.
And even if we don’t want to think about our brand identity — how we want others to see us — we’re being seen regardless. We’re becoming known for something. We’d just be leaving it up to others to decide who we are, rather than being an active participant in that process.
marketing
(verbal noun) 1. the action or business of promoting and selling products or services, including market research, advertising and public relations.
As soon as a product, service or business is seen by someone else, marketing has begun.
Ideally, marketing is intentional and reflects the brand identity at all times. In thinking of brand you, that would be character and integrity.
However, make no mistake; just as with any company, marketing is happening whether you like it or not. It’s happening whether you choose to be involved in it or not.
Even if you were a hermit, you’d be subject to marketing by way of rumor, suspicion or urban legend.
Marketing is happening because people see you (even when you don’t think they’re looking).
Your actions are creating window displays.
Every word you speak is a commercial. Gossip to me about someone else, back stab or belittle them, and you can put money on the fact that I’ll be tucking that away, guarding myself based on the knowledge that I could just as easily be your next target.
Your social media accounts and emails are full-page spreads. Your posts and tweets are ad copy. They are creating expectations in the minds of a viewing audience. Are you the real deal … or are you guilty of false advertising?
People you don’t even know are talking about you, because someone you interacted with only briefly — no more than a blip on your radar — told someone else how wonderful [pessimistic, helpful, conceited, intelligent, mean] you were.
And that means there are unseen doors of opportunity opening or closing all around you, all the time. Job opportunities. Dating opportunities. Best-friend-of-your-life opportunities. All coming your way — or walking away — based on PR and word-of-mouth marketing going on right now.
Don’t misunderstand me. I’m not saying we should be worried about or distracted by what people think of us. One of the best things about getting older is that I care less and less if others agree with me. But that is because I’m coming from a foundation of knowing who I am and what I’m about. No target audience can include everyone. But even those who might not like me will be hard pressed to report that I am unkind, thoughtless or deceptive.
In other words, I strive to make my marketing reflect a clear brand identity.
As long as we know who we are and stay true to that identity, our accounts will be in the black at the end of the day. PR will work itself out in the long run, showing our character for what it is. And we will thrive.
brand image
(noun) 1. the impression of a product held by real or potential consumers.
Many people think that “brand identity” and “brand image” are synonymous, interchangeable. They’re not.
Brand identity is the beginning of a process, the cause.
Brand image is the result of a process, the effect.
Brand identity is how I want people to see me.
Brand image is how people actually see me.
The goal is for the two to align perfectly. But that takes being intentional.
It may take market research, by way of seeking and being open to feedback from others who will be honest with you.
Some cuts may be necessary for future growth, however hard in the short term.
You might need to shift your focus. Adjust your priorities. Change up the game plan.
But if you are diligent and consistent, making new choices when old ones are shown to be at odds with that core identity for which you want to be known, you'll reap the benefits of a positive personal brand with a bottom line of more peace, purpose, joy and fulfilling relationships.
fake: part two
The week before last, I shared with you a post containing a bit of uncharacteristic rambling about fake things I like as well as a few I don’t personally care for. The central premise was that just because something is fake … doesn’t necessarily mean it’s bad.
Thing is, as I got toward the end of that post, some deeper thoughts began to tickle the fringe of my sleep-deprived mind. But they would have taken the post in a completely different direction (if I could have even managed to grab hold of them in that state). So I just decided to write a follow-up post.
Well, here we are. And so I shall.
In the comments section after that previous installment, there was quite a bit of interesting discussion about “fake people.” We all know them:
The too-loud laugher, or the guy with the glistening perma-smile that never quite creases the eyes.
The party guest who enters with fanfare, kisses the air beside both cheeks with an ostentatious *muah!* and always seems to be standing in camera-ready poses.
The co-worker who profusely issues compliments and nods heartily in agreement during conversations — and yet somehow always seems to be at the center of office gossip, drama and controversy.
Today, I’d like to offer some thoughts on fake people (and, quite possibly, ourselves). Let me be clear up front that my goal here will primarily be understanding and perspective, not necessarily solutions, though some of the latter may work themselves in.
the makings of fake
manipulation
I’ve made the claim often on this blog and in the book that virtually everything we do in life is done for a perceived gain. That gain is not always achieved, mind you, but our motivations remain in place.
Some of the nicest, kindest people you’ll ever meet are heroin addicts. They’ve mastered the art of penitent looks and crocodile tears. They give award-winning performances when they tell you that you’re the only person left who cares about them or explain the legitimate-sounding reason they need that loan from you.
Flirtation and insincere or surface compliments might be dished in hopes of scoring a rowdy romp, knowing before the first smile is flashed or eyebrow is lifted that it’s just for tonight.
The slickest apologies are often delivered by those who simply want you to stop talking about their faults, with never the slightest intention of actually changing.
Behaving in an outward manner that appears to be at odds with our inner self can be an effective way of getting what we want from people.
But don’t suck your teeth or point your finger at “those people” quite yet. If we’re honest with ourselves, we’ve all been guilty of me-centered insincerity at some point or other:
We've been more solicitous of a famous or influential person than we’d have been to the average Joe, in hopes that it may open doors for us down the line.
We've led into a conversation with a friend by telling them how wonderful they are, all the while knowing that it’s funneling down to asking them for a favor.
We've feigned sick or claimed to be busy with imaginary tasks, in order to get out of an awkward or tedious situation.
I’m not implying that we remain passive with manipulative people or let them off the hook. I’m simply suggesting that we strive to minimize disdain wherever possible, remembering the times we ourselves have given in to the temptation to use our acting skills for self gain.
attention
I know quite a number of people who, it seems, would shrivel up and cease to exist if they weren’t able to keep a mainline of attention flowing in.
This is the too-loud laugher at the party.
It’s the big spender — with the pile of credit card bills in the secret box at home.
It’s the limelight-stealer who always seems to have coincidentally just done something just a little more amazing than whoever spoke last.
It’s also that co-worker I mentioned earlier, or that one friend in the group, who’s everyone’s confidante — and the first to gossip in corners. Fanning flames and watching the sparks jump and catch in new locations is a fascination. Seeming to run to put them out as well feels heroic. All that’s important is remaining at the center of the action.
I’ve had countless opportunities to get past the surface with “fake” people of this variety. It often takes a long time and lots of patience, because the need for attention is every bit as much an addiction as drugs or alcohol. And withdrawal or detox are just as painful. Normal levels of attention feel the same as being invisible. And feeling invisible … feels like being dead.
Often, if you go back far enough, this brand of “fake” stems from feeling unloved. And along the way, attention in its many forms became the substitute: the close-enough. Ironically, while these people may occasionally get a short-lived fix, their approach usually leads to even more rejection and loneliness.
safety
For some, smiling, nodding in agreement and laughing at every joke feels safe. Social niceties, personal inquiries, stories and winks can come off as feeling rehearsed … because they are.
Unlike attention-fake, the safety-faker is generally well-liked. They're popular even — just not well-known.
Large groups actually feel safer to these people, because they can blend in and use their safety go-tos often without being discovered. They are the best party hosts — and yet the most insecure people.
These “fakers” don’t have malicious or deceptive intent. In fact, if you take the time to get to know them, you might be surprised to find that they’ll confess they are “terrible with people” or uncomfortable with conversation. Once their rehearsed stand-bys run out, they begin to feel stuck, even panicked, and will often withdraw.
Safety-fake can also be a substitute for love: "I know how to be what I think people want me to be. But I fear people wouldn't like the me that I really am inside."
This would also include the people pleasers (my former self included). People like happy, fun, entertaining people. So we learn to be happy and fun and entertaining — even when we’re crumbling inside.
etiquette
Many people I know were simply raised to smile and laugh warmly, despite how they might be feeling about a person or situation. Think of the classic Southern Belle (though this type of rearing is certainly not limited to any particular region).
And really, the problem isn’t with practiced cordiality itself. In fact, most of us put this into play at some time or other.
You’re at that gathering where you’ve been cornered by someone who’s been talking for the last half hour without pause about the different types of eyes used in puppet fabrication. (Yes, this really happened to me.) You’re starting to sweat and feel a tightness in your throat, panicking that you’ll still be standing there in another hour. Or two. Will anyone rescue you?
But what do you do? You raise your eyebrows, smile and say, “Uh-huh” or “Mmmm…” with much nodding of head — even after the words have turned to the horn sounds the adults made in the Peanuts cartoons.
What's the alternative if you can't get a word in edgewise? Run away in the middle and later claim that you had to throw up? Shout over them (at your friend's party, mind you) and tell them outright that you frankly don’t give a rip about whatever they’ve been talking about?
Sometimes, you just have to grin and bear it, reminding yourself that the present squirmy feeling won't matter in a year. (Though when I know the corner-trap guest is at a party, I always plan my escape with certain friends who stay on the lookout, ever ready for that rescue.)
Acting in contrast to how we may feel based on etiquette is different from doing so for reasons of safety. The former is based on “good breeding” (whether the instruction itself was balanced or not) and may be employed by confident people as a point of strength, whereas the latter is typically a coping strategy for dealing with insecurity.
sincerity
A couple of years ago, a change in health plans landed me with a new primary care doctor. Upon my very first visit, I found the usual questions taking a turn down an odd path. Do you smoke? and Any allergies? drifted into questions about family history of depression, spending habits and the like. Keep in mind that this was within five minutes of meeting me for the first time.
I stopped him mid-question and stated directly, “It seems to me that you’re attempting to diagnose me with mental illness, bipolar disorder if I had to guess.”
He stopped writing and bit his lip. Guilty.
“Well, if you want to know, yes. You do seem a bit too … happy.”
There have been times when I’ve invited someone to a gathering with my close circle of friends, and they’ve confided in me afterward, “They all seem great. But it felt … weird. Nobody is really that nice, for that long.”
And we aren't the only ones. I've known many wonderful people across a lifetime who've been labeled by some as "fake," but who I knew to simply and legitimately be that nice.
That excited.
That gregarious.
That happy to see their friends.
That interested in what others had to say.
Even if it’s perhaps not the norm or quite what you may be accustomed to.
*****
Just as with the first post on the topic, let me point out that perhaps what you see as “fake” may be more complex — less black-and-white — than you’ve been seeing it.
I might even go so far as to say that there are no fake people. There are only real people making real choices for specific reasons.
This also seems the perfect opportunity to reiterate one of the central pieces of advice from the book:
Focus on the person, not the problem.
Again, my goal here isn’t to suggest how to “fix” anyone. My hope is that in considering the why over the what, you may find ways to trade judgment for empathy a little more often.
And in the process, you may even gain some insight into your own choices where being fake is concerned, toward making different choices tomorrow.
superstition
It was Thursday, well past the witching hour. I was on my way to the gym, the silent back roads lit only by the cold white light of an occasional street lamp. As I approached an intersection, something darker than the surrounding night dashed out from the woods in front of my car, stopping just long enough to fix bright green eyes on me before continuing into the thick brush on the other side.
A black cat.
And it had crossed my path.
Of course, being a rational person, this didn’t cause me to turn back the way I’d come and find an alternate route. Yet I was clearly still aware of the superstition associated with the incident. And it occurred to me that this awareness did have a subtle effect on my emotions. I drove onward as I normally would have; but some part of me felt I was doing so despite the superstition. And that would seem to indicate that the superstition had credence, if only in a residual way.
In other words, it seems to me that we don’t do things despite other things, unless those other things are perceived to hold some power or sway.
We wouldn’t say, “We had the picnic despite the forecast” — unless we perceived that the forecast had at least the potential to disrupt our plans.
Back to the example of the black cat crossing our path, it’s almost as if some small part of us feels we’ve accepted a dare, and that by crossing that path, we’re somehow giving the proverbial finger to the universe, proving we’re not one to be controlled by such nonsense.
No one could deny that we don’t have the same reaction when, say, a squirrel or turkey crosses our path. It wouldn’t even occur to us to think such a thing. Why? Because, well … we really don’t believe squirrels or turkeys crossing our path makes a lick of difference.
I guess what I’m saying is that all of us are affected to some degree — maybe even more than we might be aware — by voices from our past.
Culture. Society. Family. Religion. Media.
And no matter how reasonable we might be, we never entirely shake those influences.
Another example: in the last two weeks, I’m fairly certain I’ve heard at least three grown adults whom I consider to be intelligent, rational people relay to me with grim acceptance, “Well, you know what they say … bad things happen in threes.”
Even I myself, in that same stretch of time, had my wallet stolen and bank card charged up. Last night, on my way to see a movie, I got yet another call from the fraud department of a card that has never left my possession, telling me that someone in Florida had racked up nearly $1000 on the card, and had even gone so far as to access my account and change my address, mother’s maiden name and other details. And just before I sat down to start writing this post, my check-engine light came on for the first time since I’ve owned this car.
One.
Two.
Three.
Now, if pressed on the issue, most of us wouldn't voice support for the idea that a superstition like “bad things happen in threes” is rational. Who or what would be in charge of managing such a “rule”? And why?
And yet, if we’re honest, here again, we have to admit that a teeny tiny part of our emotional self has heard the words so many times that we wind up “shrugging off” such things: which can only mean that we’d felt they had climbed on, somehow, in the first place.
So where am I going with all of this discussion on superstition?
Well, it also occurred to me that black cats and other bad luck aren’t the only “collective voices” we’re in the continual process of needing to “shrug off.”
I was talking with a young man earlier this week. During our discussion, he made claims about himself that included such things:
- “I’m terrible with details.”
- “I forget everything.”
- “I guess I'm just dumb.”
And at different points, after listening to him talk, I’d challenge him:
- “You just told me that you read and compare medical reports on natural remedies and supplements. So are you really terrible with details?”
- “You don’t forget to come to work. Ever. And you’re good at your job, even though you haven’t been there long. So do you really forget everything?”
- “Every time I see you, you’re reading a new philosophy book or telling me your thoughts on comparative religion. Dumb people don’t do that. So why do you say you are ‘dumb’?”
In each instance, he’d pause and then backpedal a bit. But only in a qualifying sense: “Well, I don’t forget that” or “Well, I’m not dumb in that area, but …”
And the deeper I dug, the more I realized that each erroneous belief was rooted in collective voices from his past, things he’d heard or believed residually for so long that they felt true and powerful to him, even in the face of logical evidence to the contrary.
In other words, it seemed to me that he had certain superstitions about himself — that he was in a constant state of imbalance, trying to scramble around darting black cats that were shadow puppets of others’ making.
Perhaps you’ve made the leap with me so far, from “silly” cultural superstitions to personal ones. You’ve been willing to accept that maybe you’ve been hard on yourself in some areas that, if you take a close look at them, are just plain malarkey.
Don’t get too comfortable just yet.
Is it possible that, whether wittingly or unwittingly, you yourself are letting loose some black cats into other people’s pathways?
Take prejudice, for example. Surely, you don't consider yourself prejudiced, do you? I'm going to suggest that there may yet be superstitions lurking within your inner self where others are concerned.
For instance, might even a seemingly reasonable self-statement such as “I’m not prejudiced against [_______]” hold similarities to continuing to drive “despite” the black cat?
Put another way, I wonder if such claims may be more akin to “I’m open-minded and evolved enough to accept other people even though they are black / Latino / gay / Muslim / poor (i.e., “not like me,” who is the assumed standard of normal).”
I accept people even though.
Despite.
I guess what I’m suggesting is that the mere acknowledgement of such categorizations is evidence that socialization has in fact accounted for some of our thinking. [Even the labels I myself chose to include identify thinking associated with a particular assumed readership.] Ergo, some of that thinking — may be flawed and thus in need of adjustment.
Small children, when they accept another child, don’t think in terms of “I like them even though …” If you were to ask them to tell you why they accept someone else, they’d respond with something like, “Um … because they’re nice” or they’d roll their shoulder and say, “I dunno” and go skipping off.
No matter how old, how educated, how enlightened any of us may consider ourselves (or may actually even be, in relative terms) we’ve all got faulty beliefs. It’s part of being human, of living in a world with other humans. We influence — and we are influenced.
It seems to me that real wisdom isn’t reaching some pinnacle of perfection, but rather being honest enough to continually assess our ideas. To never become so attached to a mindset that we can no longer admit where we might have been wrong — and to let go. To adapt. To grow.
To change.
golden ticket
I've got a golden ticket
I've got a golden chance to make my way
And with a golden ticket, it's a golden day ...
OK, so the ticket wasn’t golden. It was orange.
And it wasn’t a free ride to the Chocolate Factory. It was a $40 ride to the poorhouse.
I drove up to Boston recently, to take part in a celebration dinner for a graduating class of opticians I’d taught as a guest lecturer back in the fall.
Driving in the city doesn’t bother me in the least. It’s the parking that gets me. I’d only ever been to the location with my best friend, Dib, who drove each time. And even with her knowledge of the area, parking had never been easy. So I’d set out two hours before the event, to give myself more than adequate time to find street parking or a nearby garage.
To my surprise, I found an open spot by a meter, not even a block from the school.
The digital message on the meter informed me that operational hours were 6:00AM to 6:00PM. It was 6:05. Kismet!
Still, ever the conscientious sort, I inquired of a passerby who said he lived in the area. “This meter says it’s only operational until 6:00. Is there any reason you can think of that I shouldn’t park here?” The man assured me that I was good to go.
However, when I returned to the car after the event, there it was: the bright orange ticket, placed under a wiper.
I was aware of my pulse rising, feeling it in my throat, just under my Adam’s apple. I unfolded the citation: Resident Parking Only. $40.
Resident Parking Only? With furrowed brow, I looked both ways along the sidewalk. Nothing to the rear. Ahead, perhaps 30 feet or so, was the metallic back of some kind of sign. I walked to it and read the other side: Metered parking 6:00AM – 6:00PM. Resident Parking Only 6:00PM – 6:00AM.
I’d done my due diligence. I’d even asked a resident. How could I have guessed that a back-to sign way up the sidewalk applied to a metered area … or that the metered parking became resident parking after a certain hour?
Here, I faced a choice.
I could give in to negativity, ruminating on the unfairness of it all until my mood soured. I could get angry, decrying the City of Boston as thieves who think nothing of deception and robbing people to make a buck. I could picture that rotten police officer smirking while glibly writing out my ticket — just like every other person in authority, getting high on their own sense of self-importance. They know that people aren’t going to appeal these things, because of the time and inconvenience of driving back into the city and spending all day in court, only to have them stick you with it anyway. And all so they can pad the tills to overpay some fat, lazy cop to stand around on construction detail eating donuts …
Isn’t this how things go if we let them?
In other words, I could play the part of the victim, the oppressed.
Or …
I could start by telling myself, “You always have a choice.”
I could choose to remain positive.
I could choose to see this as an opportunity to practice patience.
I could choose go through my worry checklist, making note of what I could do about the situation if anything, and when I could do it.
I could choose to view the unseen people involved as people and not as problems.
These choices combined into a decision to visit the website listed on the ticket. That led to learning there was an online appeal process, which surprised me, having believed that live appeals were the only option.
The appeal form only allowed 500 characters — not words — with which to explain why you felt the ticket had been given in error — a fact which certainly put my skills as a writer (and problem solver) to the test. But I finally managed it and sent it off, with the promise that I’d receive an answer within 10 business days.
Let me point out that appealing the ticket could still have been done with victim mentality, assuming that the police department only offers such appeals as a technicality, and that the whole thing was just an automated process that churns out GUILTY with an email bot. Or that any actual person would be no better, not even reading what anyone has to say, just clicking “No … no … no … no …”
Honestly, I went in picturing that a reasonable person would be on the other end, or I’d never have bothered.
Sure enough, about two weeks later, I got the email reply. A decision had been made: the ticket had been repealed.
Even at this point, choices existed. Would I feel entitled, thinking, Darned right, you appealed it, ‘cause your whole stupid ticket was a scam in the first place! (You know this to be true about human nature.)
Or …
After a little digging, I was able to find a contact email address for the appeals office. I sent them a quick email:
THU 5/18/17 3:04PM
Hello,
Today, I received a letter from your office informing me that, in response to my appeal, you have administratively dismissed my ticket. I just wanted to say thank you. I'm sure much of your day is spent ameliorating tense situations and receiving negative feedback. I felt it was in order to acknowledge appreciation as well.
Enjoy our early summer!
Erik Tyler
Within a half-hour, I received a reply from a real person — Jacquelynne — who expressed her thanks and appreciation for the email, confessing that, yes, it can get wearing with all the negative, while they seldom hear the positive.
I know what you’re thinking: Yes, well, that’s all fine and dandy. But what if they hadn’t decided to repeal the ticket? Then what would you have done?
And the truth is that then … I’d have had yet more choices to make.
Appeal in person, claiming that 500 characters hadn’t been enough to adequately state my case? I could have. Likely, I would have returned to my worry checklist, paired with my go-to stress question: “Will this matter in a year?” And I would have quickly come to the conclusion (rightly so) that, no, it won’t matter in a year, and so it’s not worth another moment’s thought or happiness.
We seem to think that the course of life is determined by the big decisions we make. And I suppose to some degree, that’s true. But how can we expect to handle weightier decisions well, if we’ve made a habit of giving in to negativity and self-indulgence with regard to the hundreds of choices that came before?
The little choices we make each day have a cumulative and exponential effect. Positivity becomes easier with practice. Unfortunately, so does negativity.
For better or worse, the past is the past. We can learn from it, but we can’t change it.
The future, however, begins with one choice — the next one.
no words
It was Wednesday, somewhere between 2:00 and 3:00 a.m. I was in the middle of a shoulder workout. Joe, the sole employee on duty, was parts unknown; so I essentially had the entire gym to myself. I had just finished up a set of lateral raises and was placing the dumbbells back on the rack.
That’s when I started crying.
*****
I received quite a bit of feedback with regard to last week’s atypical post. Responses ran the gamut, with people enthusiastically supporting or decrying in about equal proportions a wide range of things — some of which I never actually said or meant.
What I found even more curious, given the nature of the topic and its accompanying challenge, was that for all the disparate thoughts shared, not a single person asked a clarifying question toward being sure they understood my intent.
And that, of course, only further underlines what the post was actually about — our seemingly inescapable inclination as human beings to perceive through the lens of our own existing belief systems what others are saying, taking as a given that our interpretations are accurate.
As it turned out, that post was one of my longest to date. And yet, for all the words, clarity still had a tendency to remain elusive.
I’ve always felt that language grants us magical powers. Yet like any tool, I’ve found it to be a double-edged sword — capable of being used for both enormous good and dire ill.
Words allow us the ability to mitigate or to manipulate.
To clarify or to confuse.
To liberate or to label.
To draw people in — or to draw lines that keep them out.
I recall having seen a movie where an inmate at a high-security prison killed someone with a plastic spoon. It occurred to me that, much like words, the spoon was not the problem. The intent of the user was.
Still, this great capacity to help or to harm only accounts for willful uses of language and words.
Some years back, I read a memorably strange news article. A woman had waded out some distance from shore at a beach and was dunking herself under, perhaps seeing how long she could hold her breath. Suddenly, a pelican dove, apparently mistaking the bobbing hair on the surface of the water for an injured fish or squid. But instead of finding an easy dinner, it collided at high speed with the woman’s skull.
Both the woman and the bird died.
Neither of them meant the other any harm. Neither was good or evil, right or wrong. It was just bad timing. Faulty perception. Miscalculation. Nonetheless, great damage was done.
Words are sometimes like that, I’ve found.
*****
I visited Paris for the second time in October of 2012. I posted this to social media on October 11 of that year:
We entered through one of the back gates of the Louvre and into the central courtyard. The rain had stopped, but the square was virtually empty. From the shadowed archway of an alcove, a single cellist played "Ave Maria." As it echoed through the towering stonework and courtyard, a woman stood for a fashion shoot on the edge of one of the fountains in an exquisite couture dress, the diaphanous scarlet train of it billowing in the wind.
If I close my eyes even now, I’m right there again. Sitting astride a rented bicycle. Soaked through from the rain that had been relentless until then. My own heat causing mist to rise from my body as if I myself were evaporating into the moment that unfolded in that courtyard. Breath suspended. Throat tight. Trembling for more than the damp and cold. Turning to see the dearest friends of a lifetime smiling silently back at me with tears brimming. Knowing that we were a part of something almost sacred, something that would never be repeated again. Anywhere. For anyone.
Something we would never be able to convey to another soul as it truly was.
Even now, as I read the words I wrote in my best effort to try to capture the scene that unfolded there, I know full well that they don’t come close to actually explaining that window of time. What I felt. And whether I were to have spent another hour or another decade trying to perfect my written account — no words in any combination or volume could ever recreate the reality that existed for those few fleeting and precious moments.
As powerful and wonderful as words and language may be, they remain dim reflections of direct experience — shades of truth, but not truth itself. That is to say, for all intents and purposes, words may be true — spoken or penned with a goal of conveying truth — and yet another’s understanding of those words may very well be false. Unclear. Incomplete. Check the box marked “OTHER.”
Last week’s post was words about words. This week, I’m going to attempt to use words to talk about no words.
I’m aware of the conundrum I face here, as I set about using words to describe the depth of an experience that was devoid of them — one that had a profound effect on me, even without so much as an internal dialog.
All the same, I’m going to try. Because even if only some of you get some of the impact, I believe it will still be significant and worthwhile.
*****
So there I was, in shorts and a racer-back tank, crying alone in the middle of the gym’s weight area.
I wasn’t injured or in pain.
It wasn’t a reaction brought about by some melancholy musing.
So … what then?
Affixed at various places high up along the walls and ceiling of the gym are plasma television units, all tuned to different stations. Now, I stay pretty focused during my workouts, so I’m not the type to stand around watching shows. And each set is muted anyway, with no closed-captioning.
But for some reason that particular night, as I was pondering my last post and the seemingly paradoxical nature of words, I found myself hyper-aware of the silent scenes playing out around the room on those overhead screens.
Much as it had all those years ago in Paris, life was happening. And all without a single word.
To my right, a man in a lab coat spoke with exaggerated facial expressions, hands forming large symmetrical gestures, an ultra-white smile never leaving his face. I needed no words to inform me that he was selling something, though I couldn’t make out the product.
Diagonally to my left, a man in a plaid button-up shirt crouched between the driver’s and passenger’s seats of a tractor trailer. Two other men occupied those seats, wearing hardhats and reflective gear. The vehicle’s steering wheel was moving of its own accord. The man in the center looked back and forth between the workers, scrunching his eyebrows as his mouth moved. The others regularly looked or pointed toward the wheel as it self-adjusted.
Suddenly, the attention of all three men was drawn to the driver’s window. They squinted downward at someone in the neighboring lane. The truck’s driver looked at the man in the center with raised eyebrows and a smirk. The eyes of the man in the center got big as saucers as a broad smile split his face. He moved forward expectantly in a crouch, stretched his arm upward and pulled something.
Instantly, his mouth and fingers flew wide — a child’s reaction to what I could only assume was the sound of the truck’s horn blast, given in answer to what I imagined was a fist-pump request from the unseen commuter. The horn puller shout-laughed, his hands holding his head in exuberant disbelief, as if his team had just pulled the Hail Mary of a lifetime in the last five seconds of the SuperBowl.
I heard nothing. Not a word. Not a sound. But there I was, a big stupid smile on my own face as well, and something that felt like soda bubbles effervescing inside, to see this grown reporter’s joy at getting to live out a childhood fantasy of being the one to sound the whistle from inside a big rig.
I felt genuine happiness for him. No one used words to instruct me about how I “should” feel. And it didn’t occur to me to wonder about the man’s past or his political stands or his world view or anything else as prerequisites for my reaction. I just had what I’d like to think was a normal human response.
No words.
The television directly in front of me, overhead, frames a close-up of a swarthy young man with dark curly hair and a strong nose bridge. He is perhaps 30. He looks down, then tentatively glances at whoever is speaking to him off screen.
The shot cuts to a bomb blast. Pale bricks fly outward as a cloud of ochre dust fills the scene.
The camera zooms in slowly on a photograph of the curly-haired man emerging from the back seat of a car, eyes full of life, mouth quirked into an awkward smile. Two small children are asleep on his lap, a head on each shoulder. A boy and a girl.
The interviewer is a petite Caucasian woman with short brown hair. Her head is tilted to the side as her mouth moves.
The man draws a breath in through his nose and releases it. Teeth show briefly, moist eyes flashing upward. Then just as quickly, the corners of his mouth draw downward, tightening. His bottom lip begins to tremble.
The screen cuts to a metal platform in a dirt street. Hollow-eyed men and woman are moving slowly, bent at the waist, pulling back corners of filthy blankets. Bloody feet lie exposed at the other end of one of the makeshift shrouds. The curled fingers of a small hand are just visible from underneath another.
Cut to the same shot of the man in the car with the two toddlers in his lap.
Back to the curly-haired man, who continues to look down as his mouth works. Three large droplets fall from thick eyelashes to land on wringing hands.
The interviewer’s own hand appears in the shot, offering a handkerchief. The man takes it and presses it unceremoniously over his eyes. Then his whole body gives way and he doubles over, forehead to his knees, shaking.
The interviewer’s own eyes well up. She does not talk.
The curly-haired man has recovered a bit. The whites of his eyes are now red, his face blotchy and wet.
It appears time has passed. The man is waiting outside what looks like a New York hotel. A black car arrives. The curly-haired man weaves his head back and forth, attempting to get a glimpse inside the car. The car door opens. Shyly, another curly-haired young man, perhaps 20, emerges. He looks up. They see one another. Both men weep openly and run toward each other, embracing roughly, pulling apart only so that hands can feel one another’s face, hair. And then the embrace continues, as they rock slowly together, side to side.
The men are sitting on a couch in a lobby. The younger man has his face buried in the first man’s shoulder, hidden. His body shakes intermittently. The first man also continues to sob, but his eyes are grateful. He strokes the face of other over and over, drying the younger man’s tears with a tissue even as more continue to come.
I didn’t know the men’s names.
I didn’t know their nationality, their religion or their political views.
I didn’t know how they’d come to leave their country or to have arrived in ours.
I never considered their marital status or sexuality, income or intellect.
No words — no labels, no categories, no boxes were necessary.
I only knew that the man had lost his children. He was grieving to the core of his being.
He had been reunited with someone he’d thought was also lost. He was given hope.
No one instructed me on how I should feel. I just … felt.
And in those silent moments, as my own tears rose and spilled over, I was reminded of just how much we already know about life and what’s important, when we don’t allow ourselves to get hung up on the words.