It’s You, Not Them

Recently a pal of mine, Julie, wrote something about “Don’t judge a book by its cover.”   Got me thinking.

Of course it’s a cliche’…but cliches become cliches for a reason: because as often as not they’re true.

Those of us with “differently-enabled” loved ones in our lives become painfully aware of this truism.  Nothing brings a lesson home like, umm, bringing it home.  But before that happens, you might go about mindlessly judging people just like everyone else.  Ugly, fat, stupid, rude…all labels we plaster onto people often based on one  incident or observation.  And nearly always it’s a reflection of how you feel about yourself.

Some years ago I was leaving my field office at the construction project I was managing at the time.  It was mid-afternoon; time for me to make my rounds and do some unannounced inspections.

I was about to lock the door behind me when the bottled water truck pulled up.  Since my office on these projects was always temporary, there was no water service and so we had a water cooler for coffee and drinking water.

I went down the wooden steps to get out of the way and make room for the 5-gallon plastic bottles to be brought in.  A young man in his early twenties crawled out of the cab, got one of the large bottles and headed for the office door.  I’m not one to generally notice such things, but he was so extraordinarily well-built and handsome that he stood out, and I took notice of his appearance.   I remember he had jet-black hair and blue eyes, and looked like a movie star.  The kind you’d imagine doing very well with the local young ladies.

As he approached, I caught his eye (or thought I did) and said something like, “How’s it going?”, or maybe, “Nice day to haul water!”.  Things men say when they think they ought to say something.

The young guy didn’t acknowledge me; he looked straight ahead and just strode resolutely by, jug on his shoulder.  Hrumph.  So…this young Adonis was too smooth to acknowledge an older fat guy nearing 50.  Probably afraid someone would see him and think he was anything other than cool.

It was something that tapped into a lifelong peeve…more than a peeve, actually.  At my very core was a sore spot that was rubbed open every time I thought I was being ignored.  It had, of course, to do with self-worth, self love and personal security.  And it didn’t take much to touch that nerve.

After the boy had brought in my allotted three jugs for the week and was getting the empties, I walked over to the truck where the driver, an older man, was waiting in the driver’s seat.

Looking up I said, “Not real friendly, is he?”  I was a little miffed at being ignored…not what you’d call angry, but my feathers were ruffled enough to make conversation about it.

The driver smiled a small, sad smile with a touch of regret and a dash of sheepishness in it.  “He…oh, he’s not quite right.  Sorry.”  He gazed at me from under his ball cap, the smile lingering, telling me he hoped that I understood and didn’t take offense.

After the split-second it took me to comprehend the implications, a wave of shame overtook me.  Not the devastating, shattering guilt of having made a tragic mistake; after all, the young man probably hadn’t a clue of what I was thinking.  No, it was about me and my snap judgement, brought on by that tiny sore spot deep within my psyche that was always looking for an excuse to feel badly about being ignored.  Furthermore, it wasn’t the handsome, innocent boy who had rubbed that soreness…it was me, myself; I.

It occurred to me that the man very well might be the lad’s father, and that doubled my feeling of guilt.  To this day I don’t know if that’s true or not; but clearly, he looked out for the boy and had some tenderness for him.  I could see it in his eyes.  And events in in my own family in subsequent years brought the karma of knowing exactly how he felt…right upside my stupid head like a two-by-four.

This is how we learn our lessons.  This is how we learn to look past the cover of the book.  The handsome might not have the capacity to know that they are; the rich may cry into their pillows at night out of abject loneliness; the successful could very well be in constant pain because they imagine they should have done so much more.  They all deserve the benefit of the doubt, no less than the ones we can easily see are in pain.  We are all of our brothers’ keepers.  The ones who annoy us the most might not be able to help it.  Cut them some slack.

In my case I also learned that pain is always of my own doing.  It’s hurts like real, but it’s imaginary.  By since learning the destructiveness that’s reflected back on me by my own judgments of others, life has become a hell of a lot easier.  It was never them.  It  was always me, and that means that I am under complete and irrevocable control of it.