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.
it's a breeze
One day last week, I wished a friend of mine a happy birthday. He turned 30 and was feeling old. Interestingly enough, he was a sophomore in high school when I met him, and I was older than he is now. So I was able to paint a convincing picture for him as to just how young he still is.
As we talked about getting older, a famous quote came to mind:
“With age comes wisdom.”
Yet I’m inclined to agree with the second half of Oscar Wilde’s observation on the matter:
“… but sometimes age comes alone.”
I don’t need to look very far to find middle-aged adults who are just as petty, rash, irresponsible or egocentric as they were when they were teenagers. (Some, in fact, are even worse off now than when they were younger.) Likewise, I know many in their twenties who are quite well-adjusted and have exemplary character.
That is, wisdom comes not merely from experience but from intention to ponder that experiences. To learn from it. To make new choices.
To change.
Well, after this exchange with my still-young friend, my eye was immediately drawn to a seemingly trivial bit of movement in my living room—a sight so familiar to me that, if not for that particular conversation, it would certainly not have been noteworthy let alone served as the inspiration for a blog post.
At the open window, the edge of a sheer white curtain floated and fluttered in the spring air.
In that moment, I was transported to a particular night in February back when my birthday friend was still in high school. He and a dozen or so other guys his age were gathered in my home on a Monday night for our weekly meet-up. They crowded onto the olive green sectional or found space on the living room floor, happily munching on pizza, which was the norm.
The conversation that night coalesced around a theme. Many of them expressed that they invited change, that they wanted more for their lives, that they were open to deeper connection with others and a sense of real purpose. They came faithfully each week, ready to absorb. They were honest about who they were and where they excelled or struggled. They took part in discussions and read books. But they hadn’t seen the personal progress they’d expected “by now.” They still weren’t feeling or experiencing whatever it was they thought they should be feeling or experiencing.
One or two of them even hinted that they were disappointed that the other group members hadn’t gone to greater lengths in supporting them during the week between meetings.
Where was the magic that would grant them the life they were looking for?
As they continued sharing their thoughts, I got up and headed for the kitchen, presumably to grab another slice of pizza for myself. What no one noticed was that, on the way, I cranked the heat up another ten degrees.
Even at a moderate 70°, I can tell you that 15 teenage boys will heat up a room quickly. With the thermostat now at 80°, it wasn’t long before the sweat was trickling and they were begging for relief.
Instead of lowering the thermostat, I opened the two windows along one side of the room. “Let’s see if this cools things down quickly.” But even though it was a frigid winter night, the temperature in the room didn’t drop by even one degree. No air was coming in from those open windows.
“That’s not working,” they moaned. “Can you just turn the heat down?”
I had them where I wanted them. Breaking the current flow of conversation, I said, “The windows are wide open. Why do you think the cold air isn’t coming in?”
One of them held his hand up to a screen, as if he thought for a moment that maybe a tropical heat wave had mysteriously descended upon New England. I could see that they were thinking. Another offered, “Maybe there’s no wind tonight.”
After a minute or so more, when I was sure their minds were open, I got up without a word and disappeared down the short hall. I opened my bedroom door (which I knew they would hear). Twenty seconds later, I returned and stood in the center of the room. I pointed to the open windows and, as if I were a sorcerer, freezing air whooshed into the room. In less than a minute, they were bundling up in the hoodies they’d so recently discarded; and within two, they were shivering and had had enough.
I turned down the thermostat, closed one window, leaving the other open just an inch or so as I revealed to them how I’d gotten that air to come in—to transform a stagnant space with something new and refreshing.
My secret? I had opened another window.
Currently, every single person on the planet is affected in some way by the current coronavirus pandemic. Many are feeling fearful, worried, overwhelmed, tired, alone. But I’m just as convinced now as ever that the remedy is not to simply “sit by the window” in our stuffy little spaces, wondering when joy will start coming back into our lives.
Air only comes in when we open another window to let it flow back out. Likewise, I’ve found that life remains stagnant if we merely sit around wishing for fortune to smile upon us (and grumbling when it doesn’t meet our timetable). No, most often positivity comes into our lives only when we open windows that let it flow through us and out again.
I’m not talking solely about karma here (though I’m not debating it either). I’m talking about actionable cause-and-effect.
Are you waiting by the window for feelings of isolation to end? It’s easy to imagine that a virus or social distancing restrictions are the cause of those feelings. But they really aren’t. I know people who live in the same house and yet feel isolated. Conversely, I know people who haven’t seen one another in months or years, yet who sustain real connection. So actively seek to open windows of connection with others. It’s been my observation during the times I am out in public—grocery shopping, for instance—that the masks and gloves and six-foot rules are beginning to cause people to mistakenly see each other as the threat, rather than the actual virus. But we are not the enemy. We are allies, in this together. Yes, it may feel strange. But we’re all the same people we were before this began. So make eye contact. Say hello. Smile and wave to your next-door neighbor when you go out to check your mail. The best way to start feeling connected is to take the initiative and be a connector.
Are you in need of encouragement? Open windows to encourage others. Call and check in with someone. Send a text to share a fun memory with a friend or family member. You may be surprised how quickly you yourself begin to feel encouraged.
Are you feeling weighed down by the onslaught of information about all that seems wrong with the world? Turn off the news and go be the window to something right with the world.
Today, after food shopping, I pulled into a drive-through to get a breakfast sandwich. Another driver arrived from a different direction at the same time, but waved me on to go first. In return, I secretly paid for his order with my own (which cost me about two bucks). Each of us had played a small part in reminding the other of what’s right with the world. I drove away smiling—feeling connected, encouraged and cheerful.
Every one of us has something we can contribute to what’s right with the world. And we can do that right now. No need to wait for the pandemic to subside or restrictions to be lifted.
Are you a musician? Share a song or video concert for others to enjoy.
Do you bake or garden? Make a batch of cookies or pot a small plant, and leave it on someone’s doorstep along with a kind note. Really, any gift, however small, would go a long way. A little bag of birdseed for someone’s birdfeeder. A board game you don’t use anymore. A book you enjoyed.
Are you a carpenter? Build a birdhouse and give it away.
Spend a lot of time on social media? Go beyond hitting “like” or “share” and leave a personal comment or send an uplifting message. Be deliberate about sharing positive posts rather than negative news, controversial content or political persuasions.
Money is tight for many right now. But could you donate even just one dollar to a worthwhile charity that will help someone else in need?
Don’t have a dollar? Do you have enough spare change for a stamp you could use to mail a hand-written note to someone who might be feeling down or forgotten?
As an author and blogger, I’m using my words to promote hope and happiness where I’m able.
Here’s my “best advice”: stop sitting despondently by that same window, waiting for good things to start happening. Get up. Go open a few windows outward to the world. Before you know it, you’ll feel the winds of positive change beginning to stir.
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.
what to say (reprise)
Back in the spring, I introduced you to my writer-friend Diana by way of a unique book review with a personal twist. (By the way, this four-book series, The Rose Shield, would make a perfect, no-fail gift for any choosy Fantasy readers you may know; and Diana's also just released a beautifully illustrated children's book, Grumpy Ana and the Grouchy Monsters, for the little readers on your list.)
Sally Cronin of Smorgasbord revived one of Diana’s previous posts entitled “Write and Change the World.” It was written nearly three years ago, before I came to know Diana. As I read it early this week for the first time, it felt current. It reminded me of important things. And I would have missed it, had Sally not seen the value in shining the spotlight on it again, these years later.
*****
A couple of days ago, I treated myself to a meal out. It’s second nature to me to ask the server’s name and give my own, and then to ask at least one others-centered question that has nothing to do with waiting ts.
Holly told me she was a Christmas baby … well, her due date was Christmas, but she’d been born on the 21st. My light non-server question was this: “What’s one thing you love to do in your life outside of work?” She smiled broadly and talked about spending time with her Long-Haired German Shepherd, including pictures of “her baby.”
You’d have thought I’d given her a $100 bill, the way she responded to that simple moment of exchanging names and showing even that little bit of interest in her as a person, outside of her role — of what she could do for me. She just kept shaking her head in wonder that anyone would think to do such a thing, thanking me at least three times thereafter when she came back to check on my table.
It struck me once again that what feels quite natural to me … isn’t, for many people.
This interaction with Holly, on the heels of having read Diana’s wonderful post from yesteryear, got me thinking. I’ve been blogging now for nearly seven years. When I first started, I was posting daily (how I ever managed it, I really can’t fathom); and yet that first few months was when my readership was new and quite small. In other words, most current visitors to my blog have never read those early posts, though they were the foundation upon which the entire blog since then has been built.
Add to this the slate gray sky and rain that has presided over the last few days, and waking mornings to find the car encrusted in frost, and my mind was made up.
This week, I’m sharing one of my early posts — from August of 2011.
It’s a light and fun summer story starring a great friend and lovable cast.
It’s a practical guide to having more meaningful connections with the people around you.
It’s a timely reminder, against a backdrop of global fear and distrust, that we can still choose the kind of world we will live in day to day.
And as Sally and Diana reminded us this week … there really is power in our words.
what to say
August 2, 2011
Chad and I hung out earlier today, working on some projects together. Realizing that we’d completed all we could for one day’s work, we decided to get ice cream. (Does it seem like I eat ice cream a lot, or is it just me?)
Instead of heading to the usual chain type of place, we visited a local farm which sells a wide variety of ice cream made with milk from their own cows. I got a cup with one scoop of Banana and one of Death By Chocolate. Chad couldn’t decide between two varieties, or between a cup or a cone. So he didn’t. That is to say, he got a cup and a cone. I can’t quite remember the names, but I believe one was Maine Black Bear and the other had something to do with Turtles.
While we were there, we made conversation with many people – all of whom we had not previously met. The girls working the counter. An elderly couple. Some little kids with their mom. Another older gentleman.
Chad and I often remind ourselves that what comes as second nature to us might well seem a great challenge for others. Other good people who’d really like to be more open with the rest of humanity, but just find it especially difficult to know where to start. In other words, what would involve no risk at all for Chad and me – may feel to many others like jumping blindfolded from a cliff. If you are such a person, I’d like to offer a few simple, use-it-now tips for what to say.
what to say: “hello”
This might seem obvious, but it truly surprises me how many people tend to find sudden interest in their key ring or fingernails or some distant object whenever they have to cross paths with other people, instead of just smiling and saying “hello.” If you’re new to all this positive social risk stuff, getting really good at saying “hello” is a great place to start.
If you need a checklist, here it is:
- smile
- make eye contact
- say “hello”
That’s it! Putting this into regular practice can change your daily outlook (and maybe some other people’s, as well).
what to say: "I notice …"
During our ice cream extravaganza, I did this when I commented to a little girl about her ice cream choice (it was pink and looked like it had confetti in it): “Wow, it looks like you picked the best ice cream. I should have gotten that.”
It was a small interaction, but she smiled and took her next bite as if she were really something. Her mom also smiled at the interaction and told me that her daughter “does love pink.” And her brother, only a year or two older, stepped right up and showed off his watermelon slushy, which I also raved about.
The second older gentleman I mentioned was wearing a shirt with the logo for “Oldies 103.3,” a local radio station. First, I just smiled and said “hello.” He smiled warmly and returned the “hello,” as he struggled to get up from the driver’s seat of his car, adding that he promised he hadn’t hit our vehicle with his door. Sensing the man’s good nature, I followed up with a comment about his shirt: “Now, you might be up there in years, but I swear, you don’t look a day over 103.2!”
He looked down at his shirt, and followed right in stride with a grin. “Oh, me? I’m a young 72, but believe me, I feel 103 some days!”
“I’m with you there!” I laughed.
Other comments might look like these:
“Cool shoes.”
“Nice tattoo.”
“You have a really great speaking voice. You should be in radio.”
These exchanges aren’t earth shattering. But they do go beyond nods and typical, predictable exchanges to showing genuine interest in people for the individuals they are. In addition, they cause people to feel connected – instead of isolated, separate, invisible.
what to say: "what about you?"
So often, when people find themselves in new social situations, they become so nervous and preoccupied with how they are coming across or what they will say next, that they miss the easier option. What’s more, the other option is not only easy – it’s virtually fail proof. Asking others-centered questions simply takes noticing (and not much, even at that).
We asked the girls at the serving window, “So, what’s it like working at an ice cream shop during the summer?” No-brainer, right? And they were all too happy to tell us: “It’s pretty cool. It’s slow during the days. We have time to read in between. But night time gets crazy, with lines out to the street sometimes.” Most people appreciate when someone shows even the slightest interest in their life, and are quite willing to engage in a bit of genuine conversation over it.
With the older couple, I asked the woman, “OK, I have to know. What kind of ice cream did you get?” She was all smiles: “Coffee. I always get coffee!” Her husband was soon by her side and I asked him the same. “Maple walnut,” he said, adding sagely, “It melts slower on a hot day.” I found this both informative and amusing.
I followed with one more question: “Now, if you were both on one of those game shows where you had to answer questions about one another without consulting each other, would you have known each others’ favorite ice cream?”
“Oh, yes!” they both agreed confidently. “We’ve been married for sixty years!” she added. “We ought to know!”
“Sixty-one,” her husband corrected.
“Sixty,” she reiterated.
“Well, you may have been married sixty years,” he said archly, “but I have been married sixty-one.”
It was all in good fun. They were awfully cute. (And sixty years! Kudos!)
Again, these questions don’t have to be deep or intrusive. If it helps, don’t think of them as so much personal as personalized. In my examples from today, we were at an ice cream place. We simply used the obvious environment and asked related questions about work and favorite flavors.
Remember that most people really want to interact with their world and the people in it. To feel like they belong. Like you, however, they just may not know how. I trust that these little tips — and perhaps a deep breath – will help you feel a bit more prepared to take some new positive social risks, confident that you now know what to say.
creative love
Due to an unexpected turn of events this week (a stolen wallet, fraudulent charges to my bank card and all that goes along with getting your life back to normal afterward — a topic about which I may write in more detail at a later time), I'm still not quite over the finish line where the audiobook release of The Best Advice So Far is concerned.
In the meantime, I thought I'd share one more audio chapter — Chapter 14: “Creative Love.”
This chapter has remained one of the most popular and most talked about chapters of the book. What's more, the chapter combines memories from 4th-of-July celebrations both recent and long past. So in honor of Independence Day, Tuesday here in the U.S., I thought sharing this chapter would be apropros.
Click the link below to listen to the official audiobook recording of Chapter 14: “Creative Love” (the full chapter text is below, if you'd like to follow along):
CHAPTER 14
CREATIVE LOVE
A year has passed since I got caught in that 4th-of-July traffic jam I told you about in the chapter on choosing positivity. Last night, I joined the best people for food and fireworks by the ocean. Unlike many towns, this one has taken to allowing private citizens to light their own fireworks along the shoreline. Not sparklers and bottle rockets, mind you. Real, honest-to-goodness fireworks. And lots of them.
Of course, this is all off the books. Fire and police officials “happen” to be very busy in remote parts of town at those hours, it seems — ::wink wink:: — but let's just keep that between ourselves, shall we?
As our little clan made our way along the sidewalks, the town was out in force. Patriotic music played strong and clear as we passed one yard, then seemed to garble like the tuning of a short-wave radio as we walked, only to gradually form itself into another solid tune as we approached the next yard — all accompanied by much boisterous and bad singing. Dogs strained at leashes, barking wildly at the cacophony. Children clustered together on quilts and blankets, bedecked with glowing bracelets and necklaces and halos, all wide-eyed and slack-jawed as they beheld the wonders in the sky.
The sea wall was packed, layers deep. No one seemed to mind. But I navigated my way through the crowd and down the concrete steps, then jumped from the wall to enjoy the spectacle from the rocky beach below. The nearest firework bundles and boxes were a mere twenty feet away from where I sat. Should be exciting.
The colors and assortment were dazzling, all fired quite low and seemingly right overhead. But what struck me most was the magnitude of sound. Whizzing. Screeching. Whirring. BOOMing. It was the loudest I could recall.
Ever.
At one point, it became overpowering. The sound — not the light — was actually hurting my eyes. So I closed them for a moment, placing my hands over them and pressing firmly with my fingertips. That's when the flashback hit.
Ricky.
It was the summer I had graduated from high school. I'd gotten a job at a school for the blind, and I had three “boys” assigned to my care, all of them in for a short-term summer program. In truth, they were each older than I was.
Ricky was 18. Aside from being blind, Ricky had pronounced Asperger's Syndrome. This was also accompanied by a form of echolalia. That is, Ricky's tendency was to copy or rephrase what other people said, rather than forming responses with any real personal meaning. So, if one asked Ricky, “Are you having a good day?” he might reply “I'm having a good day” — whether he was having a particularly good day or not.
Ricky was the best. Though he was a year older than I was, he had the affect and voice of a sweet-tempered six-year-old. I was fascinated, but even more determined to have actual communication with him. I was 17 and had no real training. What did I know. But I thought it odd that staff just fell into Ricky's patterns, asking predictable and repetitive questions to which they got his predictable and repetitive responses. One day early on, I tried something.
“Hi, Ricky,” I said.
Ricky smiled, weaving his head back and forth, which I already understood meant that he was excited and happy. “Hi. Hi, Ricky. Hi,” he replied.
“Did you have a good day today?” I asked.
“I had a good day today,” Ricky said.
“And what did you like about today?” I continued.
Ricky fell silent. He stopped swaying as if he were listening for something far off. Then he continued his dance, without answering me.
I tried again. “What did you like about today, Ricky?”
He paused again for a moment, then resumed his rhythmical bobbing. “It's nice,” he said.
I welled up (much as I'm doing even now as I recall it). Ricky had given a real answer!
I continued asking only questions which Ricky could not repeat or rephrase with ease. In what seemed a very short time, Ricky and I were having meaningful exchanges regularly.
I remember the day — or rather the night — that Ricky spoke first to me, without my having asked him anything. I had just tucked him into bed and he began to cry. “I'm sad,” he said. This was very unusual for someone like Ricky, to report on how he felt, however obvious.
“Why are you sad, Ricky?” I asked.
“Mom,” he said.
“You miss your mom?” I asked, again finding this peculiar behavior, even without any real training.
“I miss my mom,” he replied, giving in to his comfort zone of repeating. But that was all right. He'd already told me as much.
Ricky sobbed for a long time that night without any more talk. I stayed with him, lightly raking his hair with my fingertips or squeezing down his arm, which he enjoyed. After more than an hour, he finally fell asleep.
This same scenario played out for the next three nights. Ricky would cry when I put him to bed, and I would stay with him and get him to sleep. After a few days of contemplation at his bedside, I had concocted a plan. There was no way to be sure whether or not it would work, except to just try it and see what happened.
The next day was my day off. I picked up a painter's cap for $5.00. I chose it because it was soft and durable, and the lid was flimsy instead of hard. The following day, I tucked the hat inside my work bag. When bedtime came, sure enough, Ricky began to be homesick. I hated to think about the night before, because I knew the other staff member would not have stayed with him or comforted him. As Ricky began to cry, I took out the hat. I placed it into his hands and helped him feel it. “What do you think this is, Ricky?”
“A shirt,” he guessed.
“Nope. It's not a shirt. Good guess. Try again,” I urged.
“Try again,” he agreed. A few moments later, he said, “Underwear,” then scrunched his face up and giggled like he'd told a naughty joke.
Weeks ago, when Ricky had first arrived, I'd helped him unpack. He had exactly two pairs of yellowed underwear in which the elastic waistbands were stretched and torn. There were two undershirts and one pair of socks, all in similar repair, along with a couple of T-shirts, a pair of jeans and one pair of shorts. This was to last the whole summer. The following day, I had immediately gone shopping and later presented Ricky with a small but new wardrobe — one item at a time. And so it seemed he did remember the day I had given him the underwear, as he guessed at what lay in his hands now. The memory of Ricky's reddened face, giggling even as the tears of homesickness streamed down, is still very clear in my mind.
I laughed, too, and replied as if he'd really gotten me with his joke. “No, Ricky, it's not underwear, silly. It's a hat.”
“It's a hat,” he said, as if he'd thought of it himself. He felt around the opening and the rim again, trying to make sense of the new revelation.
“It's not just any hat, though,” I said mysteriously. “It's a magic hat.”
He didn't reply this time, just listened. I had his attention.
“Here's how it works. You say out loud all of the things you miss and love about home, and the hat remembers them. Then, you put on the hat, and it helps you think good things about what you miss, so you won't be sad while you fall asleep. So, here we go. Let's hold the hat together in our hands and think of as many things as we can think of that you love about home. What's first?”
“Mom,” Ricky said, sniffling.
“Good one! And what else do you love about home?” I prompted.
He scrunched his eyes, which were always closed, as if considering. “Cookies.”
“Cookies? Nice! And what else?”
“Books.” (I hadn't realized before then that, of course, he might like a bedtime story. But I didn't interrupt.) Ricky had already stopped crying as he thought. Before long, his answers became mumbles that meant he was drifting off . I took the hat from his hands.
“OK, now let's put the hat on you, so you can think about all those things you love about home,” I said as I pulled the hat over his mop of brown hair. He reached up and touched it, then pulled the covers up and fell asleep. “Good night, Ricky,” I said.
The plan had worked. And it continued to work every night thereafter at bedtime.
The 4th of July fell on a Saturday that year, and most parents had come on Friday to get their children for the weekend. Ricky's parents lived in New York, and so had not come. I offered to take Ricky to fireworks that night, even though I was not on shift. This was met with much debate. Bringing a blind student with multiple needs to an event like fireworks? Too upsetting. And you're not even working. But no one could argue that Ricky trusted me and was calmer when I was on. And I had clearance to drive the vans. My taking Ricky for the night would also mean that other staff would not have to stay on duty for one student.
And so, we went.
Now, I honestly can't remember how the next turn of events came about. But my sister Shannan wound up coming along. She was sixteen at the time, and had absolutely no experience with special needs. Still, she came. I wondered how she would be with Ricky.
Ricky grew very anxious as the crowds thickened approaching the main event. Shannan and I told him that fireworks would sound very loud and scary, but that it was the fun kind of scary. “It's fun,” he said, but he didn't seem too sure. Patriotic music played somewhere close by. My sister, without hesitation, asked Ricky if he would like to dance. Ricky's whole life was a dance, in a way — rocking and bobbing and doing the two-step. And so he accepted her offer. She helped him up and fell right into his little two-step, as if it were the cool kids' dance. “You're a really good dancer, Ricky,” she said.” He laughed his giddy laugh. “I'm a good dancer!” he shouted, elated to be dancing with a real live girl.
Soon, the first “test” rockets fired, and Ricky was clearly nervous. We sat down on the grass, my sister on one side, and I on the other, pressing in tight on either side so that Ricky would feel safe. “This is going to be a lot of fun!” I assured him. “All of the sounds will be different, because the fireworks look different.”
For Ricky, there would be no bursts of color. No designs in the air. No light — only sound. Ricky tilted his face upward in expectancy, as he waited for whatever would happen next, somehow understanding that the noise had come from above him.
Then my sister said something which I'd forgotten until the memory resurfaced last night: “I'll draw pictures on your back of what it looks like.”
It was brilliant, really. And moving.
The first legitimate explosions rained overhead. Ricky gasped, but he didn't seem anxious now. I squeezed his hand and said, “Wow! This is scary! Sometimes, it's fun to be scared!” Ricky smiled, with red light shining on his upturned face. Shannan got up and knelt behind Ricky, then wiggled her fingertips over his back in an outward motion approximating what was happening in the sky. The next one screeched out five separate rockets that spiraled away at the end. Ricky squeezed my hand tighter. My sister drew arcs with curly-Qs up Ricky's back, one at a time. And so it continued.
I really believe that Ricky was having all the fun of going to a scary movie with good friends. He began to laugh out loud, or crouch smaller at the bigger booms, giggling. All the while, I squeezed his hand as my sister drew forms.
THE BEST ADVICE SO FAR: Tenacious love expressed with creativity can work wonders.
Another shattering *BOOM* brought me back to the present, where I sat there with my fingertips still pressed over my eyes. A few tears escaped as I remembered Ricky and the events of that night.
I wondered where he was, and what he might be doing today.
I wondered if he still had the magic hat.
I wondered if he remembered me, or that night when he'd danced with a girl who smelled nice.
I wondered if he might be at fireworks somewhere even tonight, smiling, squeezing his hand tighter and feeling imaginary fingertips drawing pictures across his back.
What I did not need to wonder about — what I was certain of — was that time, creative energy and love had been well spent all those years ago.
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.
hope floats
For those avid readers of The Best Advice So Far: the blog, you’ll have noticed that there was no Friday post last week. This is because I was out to sea, unplugged from WiFi and Internet access, as I headed out from Miami to the Bahamas as part of my younger brother’s wedding celebration.
As a side note, I should tell you that, as much as I enjoy digital connection and writing, the break did my soul good. You should give it a whirl sometime. However, my focus in this post will not be on making room for silence in your life or how important it is not to let technology interfere with our human interactions. Those are both important topics. But today, I want to let you in on an intriguing human phenomenon I witnessed during this oceanic excursion.
We arrived in Miami on a Saturday evening. My sister-in-law-to-be picked us up at the airport, where we promptly got lost in construction and confusing signage, turning a 7-minute ride to the hotel into nearly an hour-long "adventure."
The hotel was a tall gray building, standing out above the downtown Miami skyline. There was some kind of circus in town, as well as a concert by a major artist and a prominent bike race. It was mayhem. There was no parking at the hotel, even though it had been paid for.
Once we checked in, our small traveling group was tired and hungry (they didn’t even have little bags of pretzels or nuts on our flight). But feeling frazzled, most of them didn’t feel like hunting down a restaurant; so they just made their way down the block the multi-level grocery store and decided on grab-and-go “meals” they would eat back in their rooms.
Some of the wedding party had already arrived and were out and about. Others had to be picked up in shifts as they arrived mere hours apart back at the airport.
I myself wasn’t particularly fazed by all of this. I enjoyed the change of scenery and multicultural population of Miami. But in addition to interacting with strangers on a regular basis, I’m also an observer. And what I noticed was that people seemed very guarded. The streets were crowded with people, but even huddled at crosswalks, elbow to elbow, people went to great lengths not to look one another in the eye or greet each other – not even with a silent nod or smile.
Some of my party hid for the rest of the evening in their rooms, exclaiming that they’d been “stared down” by the “sketchy” and “scary” people on the streets. Constant stern reminders were doled out regarding keeping money and valuables in your room (hidden well, because “these people will steal it right from your room”).
The next day, Sunday, I made plans to meet up with an author-friend I’d connected with online. As I waited for him to pick me up, I was chided curbside by a relative stranger who sucked his teeth and questioned my judgment and warned me about “these people down here,” expressing in ominous tones, and with much wagging of head, that I’d likely be kidnapped or chopped into little pieces and hid in a dumpster, and just what did I think I was doing?
fallen: remembered
Note: September 11, 2015
Typically, I publish a brand new post each Friday. I enjoy the challenge, honesty and real-time engagement of writing new posts each week and sharing them with you. However, I felt this week warranted a first for me. While I certainly find occasions to share previous posts again, I've never reblogged the same post twice. But after having reread this post from exactly four years ago today, I was moved deeply again – in familiar ways, but also in new ones. It allowed me to refocus, to see with crystal clarity some things that had become a bit blurry around the edges. I felt there was no additional sentiment or perspective I could add at this moment that would better capture what I felt and wrote those four years past; and so it is that I share it with you again today.
We remember.
sweet somethings
It's somewhat alarming to me how many social kindnesses are rapidly going the way of the dodo. But the effect of a simple and sincere compliment is still as profound as ever. If you've gotten out of practice, getting ready to give a compliment may very well make the back of your neck go all tingly. Take that as an indicator of the positive power in what you are about to do. (And isn't it wonderful how alive that *zing* makes you feel?)
Maybe you're a leader who is committed to honing your skills as far as praising and encouraging those around you on a regular basis.
Maybe you want to know how to compliment a girl or guy you like. (Note: If you’re looking for self-serving pick-up lines, I’m afraid you'll need to visit a different kind of blog.)
Perhaps you’ve been really wanting to show your appreciation for a family member, but it feels foreign and a little weird.
Or maybe you just aren’t sure how to compliment anyone at all in a way that will be well received.
Well, this one’s for you. Here are some guidelines for how to compliment others with class and maximum effectiveness: