I did not see this coming. Careful preparations and planning did not indicate there would be an aftermath, especially one predicting a divorce. Allow me to explain.
In mid-December, I asked my beloved to play the role of Santa's brother as he and I visited preschools throughout disaster-stricken Tohoku. American Christmas candy donated very generously was carried over my husband's shoulder in a large, white bag resembling the one Santa is known to carry. Here the anonymous goodwill of those who donated this candy would meet bubbling children, eager for chocolate, chewy candy, and sweetness previously untasted. A time of cheer, we visited five preschools, leaving the sixth for the last day. Here the real Santa was arriving. No faux "Santa's brother" at this place. Whereas other principals and I had strategized keeping the real Santa for Christmas Eve would be less confusing to kids, on Friday, at this preschool they wanted the real deal. Never mind today's Santa wouldn't look the pictures they'd seen to date. About the only thing Santa-husband and the real Santa had in common was that they were foreign.
No, today's Santa wasn't a grandfather. No, today's Santa didn't live in the North Pole. He lived in Boston. In America. No full bearded Santa would arrive. The kids were fine with this. Santa was Santa. So long as he brought presents, who cared whether he was a jolly old man with a belly full of spiced eggnog, bearded, and spoke with an accent?
So, Santa arrived. The kids sent a letter ahead of time letting Santa know there would be a big sign on the gymnasium window indicating where they were located. He was to "park" the reindeer back in the hills so they could chat with their deer cousins local to the area--the ones the kids would see by the side of the road on their way to school.
I was Santa's warm-up act. Walking into the gymnasium in my reindeer costume the kids dressed in their various Christmas and wintry outfits and hats called out, "Santa's coming!" and "Is he here?" and "Do you really know him?" Santa's visit to this preschool was arranged by me, personal friend of Santa that I am. I'm happy to make the introduction. Truly. I'll do a lot to raise my status with these kids. Slight exaggeration of who is in my inner circle? Sure. Why not?
The teacher gets up and quiets the children. They can hardly sit still, craning their necks towards the large windows, curtains closed. She gives a short speech about Santa, how he doesn't speak Japanese so Amya will interpret, that they can ask questions but he will eventually have to leave. Etcetera, etcetera.
"Well, shall we open the curtains to see if he's here? If we can see him?" The kids scream, standing up as fast as they can, running over to the window, curtains now flung open.
And, there he is. My beloved in a Santa suit, carrying two massive bags over his shoulders. Little hands bang the window, "Santa! Santa!" and Santa waves back. The cheering is deafening. A Brazilian football stadium would have good competition over who was louder today.
That's what happened in December.
Fast forward to March. I haven't seen these kids since Santa's visit, hating to miss them but unable to work out a schedule that fit the school's and mine. Entering the same gymnasium where Santa held court three months back, the kids who file in see me and talk at once.
"We got a letter from Santa!"
"Did you?" I say.
"Let me go get it," says a boy and he runs back out to the door proudly displaying the letter written by my Santa-husband, his terrible handwriting visible to all. He comes back holding the large sheet of paper and hands it to me. I read it out loud, proud of my Santa-husband's words to these kids.
"Do you think Santa will come again this year?" a girl asks.
"I don't know," I say. "Santa says here he'll try, but that you have to be good. Can you be good?"
The room buzzes with kid-talk, and I hear "we will" and "yes" and "of course" and "if he says we have to be good we'll be good" comments flying in all directions.
And then...
And then. One boy's words, "When I get older I'm going to Boston" kicked open a conversation, a true I-can't-make-this-up moment only kids can make happen.
"You are?" I say.
"Yes."
"For what?"
He gives me a woman-you-are-truly-dumb look and says, "To see Santa."
"Oh," I say, smiling.
"Maybe you can study while you're there, too," I add because maybe Santa-husband won't live there by the time they arrive.
Then I hear, "Me, too!' and "Me, too!" and more of the same. In twenty years there will be onslaught of students visiting and studying at various Boston universities all coming from Rikuzentakata. Perhaps at that point they won't be looking for Santa (my husband) anymore, but Boston is now these kids' Mecca, the holiest spot on earth where all good people live and all good things happen. It is, after all, Santa's home and that alone is reason enough to consider Boston toy heaven.
There are so many children committing to visiting and studying in Boston it's overwhelming and I start to tune out the noise. I let my eyes wander over the crowd taking in the sounds of Boston-related cheer and then I settle on a girl sitting below me to my left. She looks up at me and says as if it's the most natural thing in the world, "I'm going to Boston, too. But, after I get divorced."
Huh?
I misheard, right?
She's five.
I definitely misheard. And, it's not funny so I'm definitely not going to laugh.
Don't laugh. Don't laugh. Don't laugh.
I look down at her again and she repeats herself.
"I'm going to Boston after I get divorced."
"Okay," and I am not proud of the fact I could not respond with a better line.
So, Boston friends. Take in these children who know of Boston as Santa's home whenever they may arrive and make them feel welcome. Let them believe Boston is worthy of the place Santa chose as home.
Showing posts with label Boston. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Boston. Show all posts
Wednesday, April 2, 2014
Wednesday, July 24, 2013
On Grandmothers
It all started with an NHK documentary I watched as a child. The Japanese maestro of the Boston Symphony Orchestra, Seiji Ozawa was highlighted on this show. My parents and I crowded around the television taking in his words, the music, the awe he inspired. The camera zoomed in on a statue in downtown Boston (one I have yet to find) and I knew right then and there, someday I would live in Boston.
Fast-forward twenty or so years and I'm talking to a friend about this revelation, that I will some day live in Boston. "People are rude in Boston," he says. "Really. My cousin lives there. He's impressed by what Bostonians do and say. Well, impressed isn't the right word, I suppose. People there take rudeness to a new level. Even the grandmothers are bitchy."
I scoff. He is wrong. Not about how an entire population of a city, or so his cousin points out, can be rude. My objection is about grandmothers. Grandmothers are not, cannot be rude. He is simply wrong. His cousin exaggerates.
These were the days I measured grandmothers by mine. No one would dare accuse my grandmother of being rude. Ever. I assumed all grandmothers were kind, patient, supportive, giving, and treasured. My grandmother was. Others must be the same.
I was idealistic, young, and naive. I lacked real-world experience. I was fortunate enough not have spent time around (many) truly rude people. And I was idealistic. (That part warrants another mention.) I refused to believe there were rude grandmothers in the world. Collectively, surely they must be like my grandmother. As a group, they simply were not capable of rudeness.
Oh youth. When we finally did move to Boston in 1997 we were met by aggressive drivers, opinionated people who spoke their minds freely (which usually meant they were pointing out how I was wrong), and finally, rude people. I was shocked. Was my friend right? No. Grandmothers in Boston would not be, could not be rude. Right? The rest of these people, maybe. Not grandmothers. Please, not grandmothers.
And so the bubble was burst. One after another, rude grandmothers showed up in front of me, turning left from the right hand lane, flipping me off when I honked at them. In the grocery store, their cart in the middle of the isle blocking everyone, my "Excuse me"s met with eye-rolling and "Well, just move around me then." She might as well added, "You little snot" to the end of that sentence.
Twenty more years after my friend told me of his cousin's words, still unwilling to believe all grandmothers everywhere were capable of rudeness I made my way back to Japan. The land of politeness, consummate service, and kindness, surely grandmothers here personified grace. In the two years I spent up north in the Tohoku region, I had yet to come across a rude grandmother. Hoping the American sentiment of freely expressing one's own opinion was what caused grandmothers (at least in Boston) to be okay with their behavior I hung onto hope. So far so good.
All good things must come to an end. The resolution, the glory I felt in my correctness came crashing down one day as I stood in line at a bakery in Tokyo, the place that sells the most wonderful milk bread. Never mind that eating this bread requires penance at the gym (which I refuse to submit to), today I would partake and indulge.
The line was long on this day. My tray in hand, the milk bread roll resting safely on top, I'm minding my own business when I feel a tap. I turn around and see an older woman, a grandmother standing there looking up at me. In perfectly clipped British English she says, "Are you here," and she points to the floor, "to pay?"
"I am," I reply confused. Why else would we all be in line?
"Que up then," she snips, and then adds, "Properly."
What? Qu'est que le hell does that mean? Oh grandmother. You managed to ruin all hope I had about your kind. I resolve to admit I have been wrong my entire life. Angry most of all that she's the one who crushed my faith I am this close to taking out my anger on her, and for a very quick moment think about saying something like, "Well, aren't you a short, snappy little thing." But, I don't. Instead I ignore her and stand my ground properly in que, same place I've been standing all along, and mourn the truth I've refused to acknowledge.
Yes, even grandmothers can be rude. Alas. So it is.
Fast-forward twenty or so years and I'm talking to a friend about this revelation, that I will some day live in Boston. "People are rude in Boston," he says. "Really. My cousin lives there. He's impressed by what Bostonians do and say. Well, impressed isn't the right word, I suppose. People there take rudeness to a new level. Even the grandmothers are bitchy."
I scoff. He is wrong. Not about how an entire population of a city, or so his cousin points out, can be rude. My objection is about grandmothers. Grandmothers are not, cannot be rude. He is simply wrong. His cousin exaggerates.
These were the days I measured grandmothers by mine. No one would dare accuse my grandmother of being rude. Ever. I assumed all grandmothers were kind, patient, supportive, giving, and treasured. My grandmother was. Others must be the same.
I was idealistic, young, and naive. I lacked real-world experience. I was fortunate enough not have spent time around (many) truly rude people. And I was idealistic. (That part warrants another mention.) I refused to believe there were rude grandmothers in the world. Collectively, surely they must be like my grandmother. As a group, they simply were not capable of rudeness.
Oh youth. When we finally did move to Boston in 1997 we were met by aggressive drivers, opinionated people who spoke their minds freely (which usually meant they were pointing out how I was wrong), and finally, rude people. I was shocked. Was my friend right? No. Grandmothers in Boston would not be, could not be rude. Right? The rest of these people, maybe. Not grandmothers. Please, not grandmothers.
And so the bubble was burst. One after another, rude grandmothers showed up in front of me, turning left from the right hand lane, flipping me off when I honked at them. In the grocery store, their cart in the middle of the isle blocking everyone, my "Excuse me"s met with eye-rolling and "Well, just move around me then." She might as well added, "You little snot" to the end of that sentence.
Twenty more years after my friend told me of his cousin's words, still unwilling to believe all grandmothers everywhere were capable of rudeness I made my way back to Japan. The land of politeness, consummate service, and kindness, surely grandmothers here personified grace. In the two years I spent up north in the Tohoku region, I had yet to come across a rude grandmother. Hoping the American sentiment of freely expressing one's own opinion was what caused grandmothers (at least in Boston) to be okay with their behavior I hung onto hope. So far so good.
All good things must come to an end. The resolution, the glory I felt in my correctness came crashing down one day as I stood in line at a bakery in Tokyo, the place that sells the most wonderful milk bread. Never mind that eating this bread requires penance at the gym (which I refuse to submit to), today I would partake and indulge.
The line was long on this day. My tray in hand, the milk bread roll resting safely on top, I'm minding my own business when I feel a tap. I turn around and see an older woman, a grandmother standing there looking up at me. In perfectly clipped British English she says, "Are you here," and she points to the floor, "to pay?"
"I am," I reply confused. Why else would we all be in line?
"Que up then," she snips, and then adds, "Properly."
What? Qu'est que le hell does that mean? Oh grandmother. You managed to ruin all hope I had about your kind. I resolve to admit I have been wrong my entire life. Angry most of all that she's the one who crushed my faith I am this close to taking out my anger on her, and for a very quick moment think about saying something like, "Well, aren't you a short, snappy little thing." But, I don't. Instead I ignore her and stand my ground properly in que, same place I've been standing all along, and mourn the truth I've refused to acknowledge.
Yes, even grandmothers can be rude. Alas. So it is.
Saturday, May 4, 2013
On Mascara, Empty Nest, and Terrorism
It's no big deal really. Having been home a week and having had to go into various pharmacies to pick up incidentals, I've noticed my brand of mascara of choice, the one I've used for decades is nowhere to be seen. The take away from this is that my lash-wand been discontinued. Sad, I will look for a suitable replacement. On the emotional Richter scale that measures my pain, this is a mosquito bite.
Then comes the announcement from our son he is moving into an apartment after graduation. Growing up we made it clear to him repeatedly he "can't move home" once he finishes university--our way of gently forcing him into the real world so he thinks of how to move forward. It's not that we thought he wasn't listening. The realization he's really not coming home, that we are now permanent empty nesters, this is bittersweet. Our baby has truly grown up.
When a Japanese friend here in Boston showed me an article on her iPhone with a "read this and tell me what you think" I went into one of those rare silent modes. I didn't know what to say. I've pondered the article for awhile now and this is what I've come up with. Pain is pain.
Written by an African-American woman about how she was sick of the lack of news coverage on issues surrounding people of color, my friend asked me, "Is her point about the Boston Marathon bombing 'whatever'? Am I reading this right?" I had to agree. The author seemed to be saying, "I don't care." No. That's not quite right. I read into the author's words, "The white media doesn't cover stories about people of color so I can't find myself caring about something that happens to white people." I don't remember the author's name, and I only read the article once, but the connection to the the fact there was so much coverage of the bombing because of "white privilege", and running being a white person's sport (or something of the like) had my friend and I cocking our heads with a "really?"
The concept of quantifying pain has been on my mind of late. Comments made to me both in Japan and back in the US about how Boston Marathon bombing really wasn't "that big of a deal" fills me with a great deal of discomfort. I'm bombarded by questions I cannot answer. I argue and ask for caution as we compare disasters. True, there are portions of any crisis that are measurable: loss of life, property destroyed, cost of clean up, etc. Emotions, however, are not. No one can assign a number to pain. The degree of pain may wax and wane; we may have "better days" but it's impossible to actually measure what these "better days" mean.
I agree the media (white or not) covers whatever they want. More than that, coverage depends on the drama affect: is it sexy, does it sell ads, how bloody is it? I urge us to go one step further: we're looking at this whole "white privilege" subject from a very US-centric point of view. On April 16th in Japan (a country of color by all accounts) there was very little coverage about the Boston Marathon. Bit by bit there were news reports in the days following, but here is a classic example of a non-white country caring little about issues less relevant to the lives of their media constituents. Just because it's "American" does not warrant coverage. Just because it's "white" does not mean guaranteed air time. White privilege in Japan? Don't make me laugh. (All this for another blog posting.) I've had plenty a taxi driver not stop for me, and it's not because they didn't see me. There are plenty of examples of incidents I and others have experienced where being white means exactly the opposite of privileged. Here in the US and the west where there's been historical oppression by whites I see how and why the word "white privilege" emerged. This concept, however, does not translate to all countries of color. My problem with "white privilege" is that it assumes: white is good all over the world. Sorry. That's just not the case.
Measuring pain is a dangerous exercise to undertake. Those who do immediately open themselves up to an argument injected with heat. "I hurt more than you do," is a statement that essentially shuts down a discussion. Should the media cover stories--domestic and international, art and politics, white and of color--with equal word count? Of course. Will they? Of course not. Is this white privilege? You're asking a white person. Does my answer matter?
Let's go back to the marathon for a minute. Acknowledge what it was: an act of terror aimed at killing many. Don't trivialize this. Someone from Japan tweeted, "The US has set itself up as a terrorist magnet." This is an example of diminishing pain. Nothing about this is helpful, and in fact, the writer is allowing me to read into that line, "you've asked for it." You're welcome to your opinion, but it would behoove us to accept the fact when we say an act that results in collective pain is "no big deal" we allow others to do the same about whatever is important to us. You want empathy? Show some.
None of us have the emotional capacity, time, or energy to care about everyone everywhere all the time. We triage which issues matter to us. How we define what matters is of our own choosing: geography, race, sexuality, or the type of disaster all affect the degree to which what happened hits home.
Broad brush strokes dismissing pain creates more distance than not. While the disappearance of my favorite brand of mascara means nothing to you, there just might be one person out there who will say, "I know! I loved that brand! Why would they discontinue it?" and here, we would form an instant bond over a trivial item. Similarly, I will now connect with those whose children have "left home for good" as we wonder if it's okay to call them to catch up ("are we hovering?") and how we ask whether they're coming home for the holidays.
Pain is pain. Mine is not bigger than yours, and yours does not matter more than mine. It's all relative and it's all personal. Allow your measuring stick to be just that. Yours.
Then comes the announcement from our son he is moving into an apartment after graduation. Growing up we made it clear to him repeatedly he "can't move home" once he finishes university--our way of gently forcing him into the real world so he thinks of how to move forward. It's not that we thought he wasn't listening. The realization he's really not coming home, that we are now permanent empty nesters, this is bittersweet. Our baby has truly grown up.
When a Japanese friend here in Boston showed me an article on her iPhone with a "read this and tell me what you think" I went into one of those rare silent modes. I didn't know what to say. I've pondered the article for awhile now and this is what I've come up with. Pain is pain.
Written by an African-American woman about how she was sick of the lack of news coverage on issues surrounding people of color, my friend asked me, "Is her point about the Boston Marathon bombing 'whatever'? Am I reading this right?" I had to agree. The author seemed to be saying, "I don't care." No. That's not quite right. I read into the author's words, "The white media doesn't cover stories about people of color so I can't find myself caring about something that happens to white people." I don't remember the author's name, and I only read the article once, but the connection to the the fact there was so much coverage of the bombing because of "white privilege", and running being a white person's sport (or something of the like) had my friend and I cocking our heads with a "really?"
The concept of quantifying pain has been on my mind of late. Comments made to me both in Japan and back in the US about how Boston Marathon bombing really wasn't "that big of a deal" fills me with a great deal of discomfort. I'm bombarded by questions I cannot answer. I argue and ask for caution as we compare disasters. True, there are portions of any crisis that are measurable: loss of life, property destroyed, cost of clean up, etc. Emotions, however, are not. No one can assign a number to pain. The degree of pain may wax and wane; we may have "better days" but it's impossible to actually measure what these "better days" mean.
I agree the media (white or not) covers whatever they want. More than that, coverage depends on the drama affect: is it sexy, does it sell ads, how bloody is it? I urge us to go one step further: we're looking at this whole "white privilege" subject from a very US-centric point of view. On April 16th in Japan (a country of color by all accounts) there was very little coverage about the Boston Marathon. Bit by bit there were news reports in the days following, but here is a classic example of a non-white country caring little about issues less relevant to the lives of their media constituents. Just because it's "American" does not warrant coverage. Just because it's "white" does not mean guaranteed air time. White privilege in Japan? Don't make me laugh. (All this for another blog posting.) I've had plenty a taxi driver not stop for me, and it's not because they didn't see me. There are plenty of examples of incidents I and others have experienced where being white means exactly the opposite of privileged. Here in the US and the west where there's been historical oppression by whites I see how and why the word "white privilege" emerged. This concept, however, does not translate to all countries of color. My problem with "white privilege" is that it assumes: white is good all over the world. Sorry. That's just not the case.
Measuring pain is a dangerous exercise to undertake. Those who do immediately open themselves up to an argument injected with heat. "I hurt more than you do," is a statement that essentially shuts down a discussion. Should the media cover stories--domestic and international, art and politics, white and of color--with equal word count? Of course. Will they? Of course not. Is this white privilege? You're asking a white person. Does my answer matter?
Let's go back to the marathon for a minute. Acknowledge what it was: an act of terror aimed at killing many. Don't trivialize this. Someone from Japan tweeted, "The US has set itself up as a terrorist magnet." This is an example of diminishing pain. Nothing about this is helpful, and in fact, the writer is allowing me to read into that line, "you've asked for it." You're welcome to your opinion, but it would behoove us to accept the fact when we say an act that results in collective pain is "no big deal" we allow others to do the same about whatever is important to us. You want empathy? Show some.
None of us have the emotional capacity, time, or energy to care about everyone everywhere all the time. We triage which issues matter to us. How we define what matters is of our own choosing: geography, race, sexuality, or the type of disaster all affect the degree to which what happened hits home.
Broad brush strokes dismissing pain creates more distance than not. While the disappearance of my favorite brand of mascara means nothing to you, there just might be one person out there who will say, "I know! I loved that brand! Why would they discontinue it?" and here, we would form an instant bond over a trivial item. Similarly, I will now connect with those whose children have "left home for good" as we wonder if it's okay to call them to catch up ("are we hovering?") and how we ask whether they're coming home for the holidays.
Pain is pain. Mine is not bigger than yours, and yours does not matter more than mine. It's all relative and it's all personal. Allow your measuring stick to be just that. Yours.
Wednesday, April 17, 2013
Forced Globalization, Boston Marathon, and Disaster Etiquette
It's been a rough 36 hours. I woke up yesterday, stumbled towards my laptop, and started going through my e-mails. Still bleary-eyed, I first saw my mother's. "We're very upset about what happened in Boston."
What? What happened in Boston?
I go to Boston.com and sit in shock.
Quickly returning to my inbox, I see a note from my husband. "I'm fine." I read it again in case my unfocused morning eyes are playing tricks on me. He's safe. I exhale.
The next e-mail is from Alpha Male, my favorite Japanese man in Japan. "You probably already know this, but....." This is his way of showing concern. I'm touched.
I type e-mails to my friends as fast as I can. I call. I'm on the other side of the world and feel completely helpless. The two emotions that I felt yesterday morning, shock and impotence, were only the beginning.
Then came profound disappointment and rage.
When by noon no one up north where I've spent the past two years said peep about Boston, my husband, my friends, and those who have offered assistance to these disaster-stricken communities, well, I simply lost it. I really lost it.
Growing up my mother told me I would show the worst side of myself to those I loved most. This was probably code for "don't mouth back" and "stop being sassy" but it was excellent advice. She's right. Yesterday, to my adopted family here in Tohoku I grew horns.
The message was simple. "That you all haven't asked about Boston is not okay." I ended with, "This is low. You all suck." I was angry, hurt, and did not feel like being kind. I chose to let all my pain out in these words.
In the past 24 hours I've been told the following: "we were busy" and "we didn't know" and "we don't watch/read/listen to the news." None of these are acceptable answers. Here's why.
To the first one I yelled at (I really yelled) I said, "Because you are disaster victims, because you've received so much aid, because you of all people collectively know what it's like to go through something horrible, you need to reciprocate. You don't get to not know. You can't get away with 'not watching the news.' You owe it to the people who have supported you all these years to care. In order to care, you need to know. In order to know, you have to pay attention to what's going on around you. You're a part of the global community now whether you like it or not. You can't get away with not caring about those who have supported you. And, don't give me this 'I'm busy' crap."
I've said the same thing to others. Some get it, others don't. I have no answer to whether it's "don't" or "can't." What's been explained to me when tempers have calmed and our voices can no longer be heard in the apartment below is this: "You would have told us if we needed to know," and "We're used to giant disasters. Sorry, but it didn't look that bad."
Is it my job to teach disaster etiquette? I wasn't prepared for this. I'm completely conflicted.
We show our truest selves to those we love the most--the good and the ugly. I love these people here, and they've hurt me deeply. I can't force upon them disaster etiquette and a more global mentality when they don't have, want, or see the need for it. This is a hard lesson to learn and one I accept only because my attempts don't seem to show results.
So, the past 36 hours have left me spent. I'm heading to Boston next week, and honestly, this can't come soon enough.
What? What happened in Boston?
I go to Boston.com and sit in shock.
Quickly returning to my inbox, I see a note from my husband. "I'm fine." I read it again in case my unfocused morning eyes are playing tricks on me. He's safe. I exhale.
The next e-mail is from Alpha Male, my favorite Japanese man in Japan. "You probably already know this, but....." This is his way of showing concern. I'm touched.
I type e-mails to my friends as fast as I can. I call. I'm on the other side of the world and feel completely helpless. The two emotions that I felt yesterday morning, shock and impotence, were only the beginning.
Then came profound disappointment and rage.
When by noon no one up north where I've spent the past two years said peep about Boston, my husband, my friends, and those who have offered assistance to these disaster-stricken communities, well, I simply lost it. I really lost it.
Growing up my mother told me I would show the worst side of myself to those I loved most. This was probably code for "don't mouth back" and "stop being sassy" but it was excellent advice. She's right. Yesterday, to my adopted family here in Tohoku I grew horns.
The message was simple. "That you all haven't asked about Boston is not okay." I ended with, "This is low. You all suck." I was angry, hurt, and did not feel like being kind. I chose to let all my pain out in these words.
In the past 24 hours I've been told the following: "we were busy" and "we didn't know" and "we don't watch/read/listen to the news." None of these are acceptable answers. Here's why.
To the first one I yelled at (I really yelled) I said, "Because you are disaster victims, because you've received so much aid, because you of all people collectively know what it's like to go through something horrible, you need to reciprocate. You don't get to not know. You can't get away with 'not watching the news.' You owe it to the people who have supported you all these years to care. In order to care, you need to know. In order to know, you have to pay attention to what's going on around you. You're a part of the global community now whether you like it or not. You can't get away with not caring about those who have supported you. And, don't give me this 'I'm busy' crap."
I've said the same thing to others. Some get it, others don't. I have no answer to whether it's "don't" or "can't." What's been explained to me when tempers have calmed and our voices can no longer be heard in the apartment below is this: "You would have told us if we needed to know," and "We're used to giant disasters. Sorry, but it didn't look that bad."
Is it my job to teach disaster etiquette? I wasn't prepared for this. I'm completely conflicted.
We show our truest selves to those we love the most--the good and the ugly. I love these people here, and they've hurt me deeply. I can't force upon them disaster etiquette and a more global mentality when they don't have, want, or see the need for it. This is a hard lesson to learn and one I accept only because my attempts don't seem to show results.
So, the past 36 hours have left me spent. I'm heading to Boston next week, and honestly, this can't come soon enough.
Sunday, February 17, 2013
Country Boy Meets City Girl, Says the Wrong Thing and Survives
Here is a very simple but powerful story.
I'm at a gas station filling up my car. The service here is impeccable. Windows are wiped. I'm given a wet hand cloth to clean my dashboard. They ask if I have trash. (I do. Who doesn't?) As the young station attendant comes back over to my window he says, "You came all the way from New York?"
Huh?
And then I get it. He saw my Boston Red Sox magnet on the back of my car, there to cover up a dent from the time I backed into a pole that popped up out of nowhere. Oh, dear man, if you had said this in Boston you would be so dead.
I must have paused a few seconds too long, because this young thing continues, "You know. The Red Sox." I exhale. Be gentle.
"The Red Sox are from Boston," I say trying not to show how irked I am. "New York..." and as I trail off, he gets it. "Yankees!" I sigh. "Yes, it's the New York Yankees. In Boston, we're the Boston Red Sox. I'm from Boston."
He shows no remorse for this catastrophic mistake, so I must correct him. Again, gently.
"The Red Sox and the Yankees are rivals. Arch enemies. We hate each other." Tactfully said, and I'm proud, especially as I gauge his response.
"Oh!" I know he got it. Do not imply, insinuate, or mistake the Red Sox belonging to New York City.
"Sorry," he says, and I contemplate whether I should let this go or needle him more, lest he make this same mistake to someone who will actually beat him for it. I decide he's remorseful enough to not confuse the two cities and their teams.
"Matsuzaka, right?" The young man is trying to be jovial, polite, chatty.
"Yes, Matsuzaka," I say back. "But, he left. Or rather, we got rid of him." I'm speaking on behalf of the Red Sox here, the collective "we."
"Oh," and the man is surprised. "I didn't know that." Then nodding, "He got old." I look down to my steering wheel to hide my grin, and agree with him.
"Yes, he got old." What is Matsuzaka? Mid-thirties? Old for a pitcher, certainly.
And so you have it. Confusion over which team belongs to which city (or vice versa, as the case may be) jump-started a nice little conversation with a complete stranger who will definitely not forget me next time I pull into his gas station, and will most definitely not make that same mistake again.
I'm at a gas station filling up my car. The service here is impeccable. Windows are wiped. I'm given a wet hand cloth to clean my dashboard. They ask if I have trash. (I do. Who doesn't?) As the young station attendant comes back over to my window he says, "You came all the way from New York?"
Huh?
And then I get it. He saw my Boston Red Sox magnet on the back of my car, there to cover up a dent from the time I backed into a pole that popped up out of nowhere. Oh, dear man, if you had said this in Boston you would be so dead.
I must have paused a few seconds too long, because this young thing continues, "You know. The Red Sox." I exhale. Be gentle.
"The Red Sox are from Boston," I say trying not to show how irked I am. "New York..." and as I trail off, he gets it. "Yankees!" I sigh. "Yes, it's the New York Yankees. In Boston, we're the Boston Red Sox. I'm from Boston."
He shows no remorse for this catastrophic mistake, so I must correct him. Again, gently.
"The Red Sox and the Yankees are rivals. Arch enemies. We hate each other." Tactfully said, and I'm proud, especially as I gauge his response.
"Oh!" I know he got it. Do not imply, insinuate, or mistake the Red Sox belonging to New York City.
"Sorry," he says, and I contemplate whether I should let this go or needle him more, lest he make this same mistake to someone who will actually beat him for it. I decide he's remorseful enough to not confuse the two cities and their teams.
"Matsuzaka, right?" The young man is trying to be jovial, polite, chatty.
"Yes, Matsuzaka," I say back. "But, he left. Or rather, we got rid of him." I'm speaking on behalf of the Red Sox here, the collective "we."
"Oh," and the man is surprised. "I didn't know that." Then nodding, "He got old." I look down to my steering wheel to hide my grin, and agree with him.
"Yes, he got old." What is Matsuzaka? Mid-thirties? Old for a pitcher, certainly.
And so you have it. Confusion over which team belongs to which city (or vice versa, as the case may be) jump-started a nice little conversation with a complete stranger who will definitely not forget me next time I pull into his gas station, and will most definitely not make that same mistake again.
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