Just Like Everybody Else

I have told the story here before of a day long ago... I was a tiny first grader sitting in a noisy elementary school cafeteria. As is probably true for many 5- and 6-year old children, first grade was a series of overwhelmingly strange and often frightening events, not the least of them being eating bad food with several hundred other people.

On the day in question, the regular teacher, Ms. Stoneburger (who I adored with a fervor verging on idolatry), was away and a substitute teacher had charge of us. Lunchtime with Ms. Stoneburger was like a storybook tea party; she sat at the head of the table, smiling and gracefully coaxing us toward gentility.

Not so with this crass replacement:  she did not sit. She paced the perimeter, a towering shadow above and behind us, alert for infractions of a code known only to her. Something in her smile made you want to cry or run away.

The emotional toll of the first-grade learning curve is forever etched on my psyche. Though I was well-equipped for the academic experience -- I knew how to read and write, for example; I knew how to sit still and obey; I knew my home address and telephone number -- I was morbidly unprepared for the social milieu of public school.

I had little experience playing with kids other than my three younger siblings:  we were not allowed neighborhood playmates at home and we were always held apart from other children at family or church gatherings.

At 5, I was younger by a year and smaller than most of my classmates. This differential translated into a variety of disadvantages on the playground, the setting for most of the unstructured, social education each day.

At some point, probably pretty early in the year, I landed on "watch Them and do what they do" as a strategy for navigating the uncertain waters of life in school. "Them" was probably anybody who seemed less afraid than I was.

So that day, in the cafeteria, when I observed the little girl across the table from me carefully tearing the brown edge from her bread-and-butter sandwich, I followed suit. When the substitute teacher noticed what I was doing, she pounced. I don't remember if she asked what I was doing or why I was doing it or if she just told me to stop. What I remember is my extreme mortification.

An early lesson about the dangers of following and trying to fit in.

The Pied Piper of Hamelin   Artist: Chris Rawlins

Discovering and making peace with how I am different and how I am just like everybody else has been an ongoing process. "Making peace" includes abandoning complaint about the differences, that "what is wrong with people!" attitude. An enigmatic, and perhaps ironic, commonality among humans is that we each "figure it out" in our own way. None of us is just like anybody else -- and that makes us just like everybody else. This basic truism informs whatever patience or empathy I muster for my fellow humans.

People may display what I deem monstrous or petty or foolish behavior. People do all kinds of things I would never do. And yet from their perspective or someone else's my behavior appears equally monstrous or petty or foolish. We each stand on different tracks. We exist in the same world but we don't see things exactly the same. We can't. We're standing on different tracks.

 One of the places where I learn this most often and most efficiently is in teaching. I share knowledge most effectively when I attempt to meet a student on their particular "track." They don't know what I know and they don't see what I see.  I start with "What do they know? How does the world look to them from where they stand?" The inquiry reveals priorities and symbols, learning styles, memories and beliefs, often quite different from mine; but these unique characteristics reveal the inroads I need to share with them what they have come to me to learn.

The regular albeit mysterious byproduct of this process is that I, the teacher, learn something. Including, how much I am like my students -- and how vastly different we are from each other.

And I experience, over and over, the miracle of transcending difference. Peaceful coexistence doesn't require that we all be just alike. (Thank goodness! since that's never gonna happen anyway.) I also don't believe it requires ignoring or pretending not to see our differences. ("Alex, I don't even notice that you're black," say well-meaning "white" friends.) We're missing a lot of the story when we interact with people as though they're just like us or we're just like them. We limit the possibilities and flatten the flavor of relationship when we avoid confronting our differences.

All my life, friends and family and others have hurled the exasperated question, "Why can't you be more like ___________?!" Time reveals that to be an undoubtedly hypothetical question. Who knows why we are each ourselves and not someone else? A more pertinent follow-up question is "Can you live with the reality that neither you nor I can ever be anyone but who we are?"

Doesn't mean we have to move in together but, for the forseeable future, we'll be sharing a planet. Can you work with that?

I'm Sorry....Who are you?

So they apologized for the "secret psychological experiment" they ran on several hundred thousand Facebook users.

Which got me to thinking about apologies and forgiveness.

There's the apology your roommate makes after eating the last piece of quiche which you were actually saving for yourself. The two of you are standing in the kitchen about six feet away from each other. And you say, "Oh, that's OK. I'll get over it."

There's the apology you make when you show up 40 minutes late for your friend's wedding rehearsal. You dash into the church. You're panting (you sprinted from the parking lot). Your hair is standing all over your head and you feel like the worst friend ever, especially because you don't even have a good excuse. "God, I am soooooooo sorry. I just...." Your friend shoots a fiery look and tosses her head toward your assigned spot in line.

You are good friends. You've known each other a long time and been through some stuff together. You'll meet for lunch tomorrow like you always do on first Fridays and she'll forgive you. She'll give you some grief about "What is it with you?" but you'll laugh together before you leave the cafe and the whole thing will be a funny story before the year is up. You both know it's not the last time you'll pull a stunt like that.

In both cases, neither the apology or the forgiveness are much needed. Both parties recognized the "oops" when it happened, both wish it hadn't happened and neither will have difficulty recovering and moving on from the "injury" -- which is really too strong a word.

It works this way sometimes between intimate friends.

More serious strains pose complicated challenges to intimate friendship. Your friend steals money from you or betrays your confidence, for example. What if s/he doesn't offer an apology? Do you demand one?

What if s/he apologizes?  Is that enough? Can you pick up the pieces and move on?

The Facebook apology, however, doesn't concern a misstep between intimate friends. Headlines blare "Facebook Apologizes for Secret Experiment" but there is not, to my knowledge, a living person named "Facebook" so who actually apologized and for what and to whom?

An early report, published soon after news of the "secret experiment" broke, said Facebook COO Sheryl Sandberg offered "something of an apology."

“This was part of ongoing research companies do to test different products, and that was what it was; it was poorly communicated,” Sandberg said during a meeting with potential advertisers in India... “And for that communication we apologize. We never meant to upset you.”

The article (on the Time.com website) goes on to call Sandberg's remarks "a variant on the classic corporate non-apology: Sorry if we upset you." Apparently, Facebook, like the friend who came late to the wedding rehearsal above, has a history of pulling stunts that offend one or another million of their users. An article at the LA Times site lists some of the more notorious, including Facebook's deft non-apologetic apologies.

[The "non-apologetic apology" reminded me of Bill Clinton's non-apology about the Lewinsky "thing"....

I remember watching this live at the time. I'd forgotten he never actually apologizes in this speech. He evokes a sorta apologetic zeitgeist but never actually apologizes or asks forgiveness of anyone under the sound of his voice that night.]

When I hear people demanding that a corporate entity or  institution or club make a public apology

or complaining about the insincerity of a corporate apology

I feel like I've stumbled onto a Train to Crazyville. 

What would an acceptable apology even sound like? Does it require a face or is a well-written letter signed "Company Name" adequate? If a face is needed, should it be the COO or the CEO or the entire Board of Directors chanting mea culpa like a Greek chorus? 

Corporations are not intimate friends. We allow them to get pretty close to us but they aren't friends. I think attempting to assess or understand our relationships with/to/under/? corporate entities by the same standards that guide our relationships with humans is a mistake. 

I don't know completely or exactly what the standard should be, but parsing and scrutinizing the latest non-apologetic apology issued by someone we don't know who is acting as spokesperson for Acme Company for getting caught doing something they'll probably do again and have been doing for years behind those curtains so big we think they're the night sky? 

&&&&&&&&&&&&&&

In 2005 I sat for a few days with Cindy Sheehan and a fluctuating number of other concerned Americans at Camp Casey--a fluid tent city erected at the gate to George W. Bush's ranch in Crawford, Texas. Cindy wanted to talk to then-President Bush about her son who was killed in the Iraq War. She sought an explanation or apology. Bush never visited the encampment while I was there but I understood the logic of whatever drove Cindy in those days. Something in her that believed apology and forgiveness require proximity. 

Superstition

Life's ups and downs are one thing.

Then there is a variety of "down" configured so precisely it is difficult to avoid superstitious commentary. Among the distinguishing characteristics of these mysterious phases:

• Cyclic. I have not clocked them yet in my life (but have committed to do so at last) but at some point during each of the serial calamaties of the my life a sense of "wait a minute...this is familiar" kicks in. If I were writing a fictional account, I might describe as a dark, rolling cloud that blankets my life every two/three/five/? months/years/fortnights/?
• Synchronous. What I mean here is that after two or three things go "wrong" in a relatively short amount of time and close succession, I will explicitly state, to myself or a witness, "Well, at least x, y or z can't go wrong" and very soon afterward, x, y or z will happen. At which point, I ask myself whether x, y, or z would have happened if I'd kept my mouth shut.
• Multifaceted. While the multiple elements of the "down" seem unrelated at first glance, it doesn't take long for a "theme" to present. An example: my young son throwing up in the car one afternoon...that evening I burn dinner...the next day "Little Green Apples" is playing on the car radio ("I haven't heard that song in years....) when I notice a favorite restaurant has closed. To my mind, at that time, "food" seemed to be a "theme"...

In addition, the phenomena will (seem) to refer to something wonderful that happened recently.

In the case of the most recent episode:  My savings account balance reached $2000 a few weeks ago. This is the most money I have ever had at one time in my life. The following week I made the final payment on my car. I was, understandably, feeling pretty good.

Soon after, a woman called to enroll her daughter in piano lessons.

On the day of the first lesson, she called 10 minutes before the agreed upon time to cancel due to a change in work schedule. We rescheduled for two days later. She did not show and, this time, did not call.

A few days later, hoping to drum up some business, I placed a largest-ever (viz most expensive) ad in the local paper.

The next day, I received a Discontinuance of Benefits letter from the Food Stamp office. And a regular student informed me she'll be out of town for the next two months. The next day, another student informed me she'll be away at camp for a few weeks. And another student's check bounced.

At which point my mind began to overload with disaster thinking, largely centered around "I'm not gonna be able to go to Brazil!" spiraling quickly into "People are awful...life is awful...I'm going to un-Friend everybody on FaceBook..."

The next day, after leaving a VM indicating she would bring a "good," i.e., replacement check to me that evening, the bounced-check parent did not show up or call.

The following morning, I looked at myself in the mirror and said aloud "Well, at least I'll still have the income from the church gig. I mean, who ever cancels church?"

That evening a church leader left a VM informing me that church will be canceled this week because most everyone will be out of town for the Fourth of July holiday.

That was the "Wait a minute...this is familiar" moment in the current "down" series and I actually burst out laughing. There's a kind of "click" that registers with the "say it can't happen" and "then it happens" sequence and that VM triggered the "click" this time.

The thing ends eventually but it's impossible to predict when so I just wait for some number of days to pass without bad news.

Yesterday, a few days after the "click," a student did not show for her lesson -- or call or text or email or respond to my "where are you text message." I smiled. The mother of the evening student telephone an hour before her lesson to cancel and reschedule for Friday.

"Apparently "it" isn't over yet..."

I'm not superstitious.

Or am I?

Does it matter?

Road Closed

A few Sundays ago after playing the service at the Lutheran church I had a "what's wrong with Holly Springs" conversation with two church members -- a "white" married couple I'll call Larry and Karen -- and the minister. Larry and Karen are highly civic-minded and active in the community. Larry holds political office and Karen serves on lots of committees.

Larry complained that the problem is "them" -- meaning the "black" members of the community. "Everybody's agreeable enough but when it comes to time to show up or donate money, you can't find 'em," he said.

"You look at the Farmer's Market down in Oxford. It's a big success. Everybody comes out and the farmer's make money. But here, you never see a black face at...." His wife, a member of the group that organizes the Holly Springs Farmer's Market, quickly but gently interrupted. "Our Farmer's Market is about 50/50..."

"Well, I'm just sayin'...." he added. "They come out for Bikers and Blues but that's about all and they won't help with the planning for that. And, of course, none of the white people come out to that because there's so many black people there.

"And I know people are struggling economically but you can't rebuild a town with only the whites covering the cost of things."

He was quite worked up. I was feeling the same way. "I hear what you're saying. And it reminds me of conversations I've had with some black residents except when they say 'them', they're talking about white residents and they have a different set of criticisms." Karen blushed and Larry wore an expression of angry disbelief.

"Speaking as the perennial outsider," I added, "I think the "Us and Them" framing is one of Holly Springs' biggest problems. It keeps the community suspicious and divided."

The minister smiled and commenced a story about a white guy he knew once whose life was saved by a blood transfusion administered by a black physician. "We're all the same color in God's eyes," he said. "He sent his son to die for all of us."

There is a high Wall around this place that has stood and will stand for a long time. Like people everywhere, the residents of Holly Springs are imprisoned by their beliefs and the opinions that spring from these beliefs.

Whites believe Blacks are disinterested free-loaders. Blacks believe Whites have all the money. Black college staff and faculty believe black townies are uneducated ne'er-do-wells. Church-goers of all colors believe non-churched local residents are pathetic and uninformed and see themselves as under siege by a non-churched (in their opinion) majority of the U.S. These beliefs inform every decision and choice they make.

And there is no convincing them otherwise.

Just like people everywhere. Their minds are on lock-down and closed to new ideas.

The conversation with Larry, Karen and the minister went nowhere. Most conversations I've had here over the past 22 months have gone nowhere. A closed mind is the bane of this sojourner's existence, a ring of Hell. A closed road. When I'm driving my car and I see a "Road Closed" sign, I understand there is no passage, that I risk damage and injury to self if I disregard the sign.

I back it up and choose another road.

Third Eye Peeping

...now, if I can figure out how to apply this brilliant concept to relationships...

I awoke this morning with a distinct sense of having three eyes. I rubbed the sleep from my right eye while thinking something like "It's OK. Let the third eye sleep." A few minutes later, sitting on the toilet, I remembered I only have two eyes.

Keep What's Needed

For a week or so now, my practice has become to toss or give away at least one thing every day. As my hand falls on a piece of clothing or a Mardi Gras throw cup or a book or....I ask myself "Do I need this any more? Do I want this any more? Am I willing to expend necessary resources to ship this to Brazil?"

These questions effectively focus my thinking and decision-making. Although I have never been prone to hoard and, based on comments from friends and others, I live an exceptionally streamlined life, there is still by my assessment a higher-than-acceptable level of clutter about me. Accumulation of stuff happens during the less nomadic periods of my life.

One level of attachment that's proving very easy to relinquish pertains to items acquired specifically to support my residency here in Holly Springs, those things purchased or received to provide comfort or convenience at this locale. Business cards of MS acquaintances, for example. Hard-copy and digital files on the MS Arts Commission and Marshall County schools are other examples.

Another layer of the clutter consists of objects received from people I thought would become close friends. There was a potential "cherishing" that, in light of developments, has been cancelled.

Still other clutter is/are mementos; things I kept to coddle nostalgia for places and times I've visited, meaningful encounters with people I'll likely never see again. These include things like a rock received from a two-year-old during a brief encounter at a mall in Colorado; a pair of earrings I've never worn, received from a CouchSurfing guest; a book on Asian tea ceremonies received from the boyfriend of a woman I knew in Oakland; a yellow artificial carnation that I received during Mardi Gras from a strange man who kissed my hand....

De-cluttering and purging remains an unambiguous delight for me. Few activities produce the exhilaration I feel in the direct aftermath of emptying a drawer or closet, creating an open, empty space where once there was blockage. I experience the deletions as a lightening of body and soul.

One of the oldest objects in my possession is a Holy Bible with my birth name embossed on the cover. The white leather cover is cracked and discolored now. Only a few flecks of gold remain in the lettering. The zipper still works but the spine has worn precariously thin. I'll look through the book for any possible handwriting -- there is still something precious about viewing my childish handwriting -- but barring any discoveries, it is probably time to let go of this artifact.

Concrete objects stir memory and I relish remembering, like luxuriating in a hot bubble bath. I value more memory that lives not as a pretty knickknack on a shelf but as a tool that I use daily, a lesson or skill integrated into my life and identity.

Smile ...or Not

Well, my passport application is on its way.  

I had been warned there might be some complication in the County Clerk's office and this proved to be the case. My application was handled by a well-dressed, elaborately coiffed, overweight and unsmiling young woman. Her demeanor was ironic given the "Smile - God Loves You" sign prominently displayed on her desk.

In fact, she smiled only three times during my visit. The first merriment took the form of a tiny curling of her lips. My application packet included a replacement birth certificate and an original court document issued when I changed my name 40 years ago. "Is this the only birth certificate you have? This looks new," she commented, a tiny, slightly sinister smile playing at the corners of her mouth.

"Yes, it is a replacement document. The original document was lost."

"And what is this?" she asked, examining the name change document. The expression on her face suggested she detected a strong, unpleasant odor. I explained the document to her.

"Well, I hope you know if they have any questions about this, they'll be calling you. When are you making your trip?"

"I'm tentatively planning for Christmas. And questions are not a problem:  I would expect them to contact me if anything is unclear in the packet."

She smiled fully then. "Well, I've never seen one of these with an application. So I hope you know..."

The way things were going, I wasn't surprised that my driver's license also threw her for a little loop. It was issued in CA and whenever I present it as ID in MS, some discussion ensues. Everyone is hard pressed to understand why surrendering my CA license and replacing it with a MS version wasn't a first order of business after arriving. She suggested the application reviewer may contact me since the address on my application is different from the one on my driver's license.

As she checked my application, completed at home, she realized it was an old form. "You're gonna have to fill all this in again on the new form," she said...and smiled for the third time.

No additional displays of pleasure appeared from that point on. The phone rang and she engaged in a brief, apparently annoying conversation with someone in a different office. A co-worker returned from lunch and they exchanged annoyance about another co-worker not in the room at the moment.

Copy machine "issues" necessitated two attempts to produce copies of the original documents for me. She survived the hassle, apparently forgetting that it was God's love for her that made eventual success possible.

In spite of everything, I was smiling as I left the building. And not because God Loves Me. I am one step closer to Brazil.

I did NOT suggest that she flip her sign around so that it faces her instead of visitors to the office. Seems like she needs the reminder as much as anyone.