Some of you have seen this already, but here’s a post from a couple of years ago that means a lot to me. By the way, thanks to those of you who have been following my blog that long!
A few weeks ago I found myself sitting alone in a crowd, anxiously searching for a familiar face.
I was expecting a friend — until her text told me not to. Now I was faced with sitting by myself at a celebratory service that would no doubt be an emotional, spiritual, uplifting experience (it was). I started looking for anyone I might know, a bit nervous but not wanting to seem so.
Thankfully, someone did appear, a more than gregarious man, well-known for being a bit of a character. I’d only met him once for all of thirty seconds, but I didn’t hesitate to call out his name and invite him to join me. He did, and it made that service a whole heck of a lot of fun.
It wasn’t until days later it hit me:
this was not only the first time I’d had the courage to do…
It is, remarkably, back to school for children and teachers in my area tomorrow.
That means football, fall leaves and best of all, sweater weather can’t be far behind.
It also brings back one of my fondest memories of childhood, the annual school shopping trip with my mom. It was a day just for the two of us, where we’d head downtown to the department store and buy shoes and clothing for the upcoming year. For lunch, we’d go to a nice restaurant and enjoy a special meal.
It made me feel valued, treasured — and grownup. It was probably the most sophisticated thing I did back then. Eat lunch at a sit-down restaurant? Like a lady? That was, quite simply, incredible.
My mom made a lot of my clothes back then, and that was a separate trip, preceded by an afternoon or evening of pouring over the pattern books she’d get from the fabric store (they gave away the old ones, which were current enough). I’d put a star on the patterns for the dresses I liked the best, narrow down the list, eliminate anything my sister also chose (we rarely had the same taste, but to match my sister just would not do) and carefully consider what kind of fabric to look for before we shopped. Then, my mom, sister and I would head out to buy bundles of fabric, enough to keep mom busy sewing for some time.
By junior high, the schools had changed the rules and we were allowed to wear pants, even jeans, so shopping for fabric was a rarer occasion. Of course in high school I wanted to shop by myself more often (although if mom were buying, she was invited). The back-to-school shopping trips became a thing of the past, except for a quick trip for undergarments and socks.
We grow up, we move on, but we hold on to the memories of childhood, the family traditions that meant we were special.
One more shopping trip — that’s what I’m hoping for this fall.
Today I want to remember all the kitties from my past.
I don’t have pictures of all of them, nor is it likely I’ll remember all their names. But Hugo, Petunia, Whittier, Salem, Gabriel, Cassie, Darren, Whitney, Montero, Carter and of course, Paco, you made my life better just by being there in the morning. Even if being there meant you were pestering me for food.
Petunia and Salem
Paco, Montero and Carter.
Cassie
The Late, Great Paco
Mighty Montero — might pretty, and pretty mighty!
Granted, the quality of many of these pictures is pretty poor, either due to age or because they’re Polaroids (or both). But you get an idea of how blessed I’ve been.
Perhaps some of you have been taught the communication technique of “echoing” or “mirroring.”
After listening to a colleague’s thoughts or explanation of a situation, you summarize what you heard and, in your own words, repeat it back to them, prefaced with something like, “what I hear you saying is…” I think it’s suggested for personal relationships, too, but that’s a different topic for another day.
I’d learned about this approach to understanding, but hadn’t truly had a chance to use it, when I began a new job at a major corporation in the southern U.S. I was learning, through one painful lesson after another, that the direct approach was rarely appreciated here. Instead, a passive-aggressive, read-between-the-lines method of communication was considered professional and respectful.
For example, if someone asked for my help with a project that afternoon, and I knew my own deadline would preclude me from being available, it was best not to say, “I’m sorry, the Acme project is going to keep me busy all day. I won’t be able to help you.” The preferred response was, “As soon as I’m done I’ll come over.”
To me, it was dishonest and disrespectful to imply there was a good chance I’d be able to pitch in when I knew full well it would never happen. What I didn’t realize was this was code for, “no way will I have time for anything but my own work” and those raised in this area of the South clearly understand this convoluted language.
The lesson slammed down on me one day when I was called into a meeting with other managers in my department. They wanted to discuss a program our superiors were enthusiastic about, but was difficult to make practical. It sounded good. For one week, a manager and an hourly worker would partner together and train each other in their respective responsibilities to help understand the highs and lows of the “other side.”
In practice, this idealistic program was fraught with problems. While my colleagues agreed on the surface it seemed like a good idea, the stories they told me illustrated how frustrating it really was for everyone involved. However, it didn’t matter what they thought, they were mandated to make it work, and they were hoping I might have some fresh ideas.
I swear, I was a lamb.
I mirrored back a summary of what I’d heard them tell me. “It sounds like you’re being asked to manage a program you believe has possibilities, but what you’ve been doing so far hasn’t been working.”
The meeting ended with that statement. Two of the women walked out in disgust at my “rudeness.” Another sat there staring at me, as if she didn’t know what to say. A fourth pulled me aside and lectured me on professional behavior and respecting the feelings of others.
As someone who always, always considered the sensitivities of my co-workers, to a point where one of my supervisors listed “too nice” as my greatest fault, this was a shock. I struggled to understand, tried to explain the method of communication, and asked what I “should” have said.
I never got a response to the latter, and they brushed off all my explanations. In retrospect I believe there was something else going on. There had to be. I said nothing insulting, my intent and manner were respectful, practically deferential.
Yet communication is different in various regions of the country, and for that matter, the world. Those women would have fallen flat on their rears if they brought their communication expectations to a company in New York, just as I would have been told to be more straightforward.
Minnesotans pride themselves on what they term, “Minnesota nice.” You drive a few hundred miles south, and people who hear that phrase will think you’re being facetious. “You know, he was (air quotes) ‘Minnesota nice.'” What’s considerate in the Upper Midwest is blunt and coarse in the South.
How did I handle the frustrations of this communication block? After two years of the underhanded words and behavior of others in my department, I quit. I didn’t have the strength or wisdom to fight it, or the savvy to appropriately adopt the same thinking. I didn’t even fully understand what was going on.
Experts will tell you that when indirect communication is used, a knowledge of the culture is essential for understanding the meaning. That’s a challenge when you’re unaware of the depth of the cultural differences, even in your own country.
What we say isn’t always what they hear.
What I saw as disrespectful in what I earlier called “underhanded words and behavior,” people whom I came to respect believed was considerate, putting the other person first. Of course you don’t tell them you can’t help them. That’s rejection. So they developed this method of (as they see it) kindly saying “sorry, I’m not available.”
Communication is more than words, although some try to limit it to such. It is knowing the people around you and the environment you are living in. It is understanding when the issue being discussed isn’t the issue you’re dealing with, when to fight for your rights and dignity and when to maintain that dignity by bowing out.
It is being human, and letting others be the same.
“You’ll be okay. You said you had to work that day. You’ll be too busy to notice I’m gone.”
That’s not exactly how it would work, and we both knew it. I’d had it. I had gone out of my way to get you really thoughtful birthday gifts just a week before, even though you’d been treating me like crap. I’d been doing everything I could to make this work. All of the effort was on my part, and now you were flying back home for Christmas and leaving me alone in a new city, a new state to fend for myself.
“Go to church. Lots of people go to church on Christmas.”
You went on with your plans. “I’ll be back January 3rd. We’re going out New Year’s Eve so I want a couple of days to recover.” Oh, great.
I began to think how wise I’d been not to move in with you. It’s not that I was such a conservative give-me-the-ring kind of person. It’s that I wasn’t sure of you. This move had been good for me, but not because of us. I’d never been able to explain that to you. I’d needed to leave home, to get away from the place I’d lived all my life and experience something new.
We celebrated our Christmas the Saturday before you left. You were disappointed with the gifts I got you, and said so. “You did so good with my birthday gifts…” Not that your gifts to me were anything to brag about, but you couldn’t — or wouldn’t — see that. I didn’t say anything.
I drove you to the airport the next morning and dropped you off at the terminal. “See you January 3rd!” you said cheerily.
“No,” I said firmly. “That’s it. It’s over. I’ll take care of your house while you’re gone, feed your cat like I promised, but I’m done.” You looked at me quizzically and left. I knew you didn’t believe me.
Not one phone call for nearly the entire three weeks, but you had an excuse: I’d broken up with you. Finally, New Year’s Eve day, you called. I didn’t answer, but you left a message. “I’m coming home early. My flight gets in at 10:00 p.m.”
I’m not picking you up. I had no plans, but I turned all the lights out about 9:45, just in case you were early. I knew you’d have a hard time getting a cab home to your place, you lived so far from the city limits. I knew you’d head to my apartment. You did.
Pounding on my door. I didn’t answer. Swearing.
The next day around noon you called. I still didn’t answer. I put your key in a padded envelope and mailed it to you.
You called again.”What the hell are you doing mailing my house key to me? Anybody could’ve gotten it and broken into my house.”
This time I returned your call. “It’s over.” I said. “Got it? It’s over.” Silence. You hang up.
You tried calling a few more times, but I’m done. I’m over you.
It also brings back one of my fondest memories of childhood, the annual school shopping trip with my mom. It was a day just for the two of us, where we’d head downtown to the department store and buy shoes and clothing for the upcoming year. For lunch, we’d go to a nice restaurant and enjoy a special meal.
My World With Words 
You must be logged in to post a comment.