My father was a racist. Thankfully, that was not his only notable feature — he worked hard, he loved his kids, and he was funny enough that my friends thought he was the best Dad around. But that didn’t stop him from being really suspect of anyone with a different skin color than him. He wasn’t a hypocrite about it; in fact, he pretty much wore his racism on his sleeve.
But here’s the thing. It was different when he actually knew someone in person. He had his own car dealership back when that was a really big deal, especially in a small town. There was a black guy who worked for him, Rupert, whose job it was to wash cars. Rupert worked for him for at least 15 years, and eventually he got old enough that he could only wash half the car — he couldn’t bend down to wax and wash the bottom half of the exterior. The mechanics would follow Rupert around to finish the job, never saying a word to my Dad about it. The only reason I know this is that I worked there in the summers. My Dad loved Rupert and he would have never fired him in a million years — even though he was always short on cash flow. Rupert was part of the business — and part of the community — everyone wanted him around.
I’ve been thinking about my Dad and Rupert lately as I’ve begun observing more carefully how we all talk to each other, and listen to each other — or don’t. Every night I watch (too much) cable TV. It’s usually the same story about how the Democrats and the Republicans can’t figure out how to work together — on pretty much anything. But they (and their surrogates) hardly ever seem to actually talk to each other and especially listen to each other. They are usually screaming or preaching or lecturing. I used to think that they don’t talk to each other because they don’t agree with each other. Now I’m wondering if it’s exactly the opposite — perhaps they never agree with each other because they never actually talk to each other.
My wife and I go to coffee every morning at the same coffee shop. We have more time these days, since a little while ago I left my full-time job, so we sit there a read the newspapers (yes, newspapers still exist). There’s a regular group of guys who sit at a table while we sit in our chairs and they are definitely of a different politician persuasion than us. They are a little loud and open with their point-of-view, and the fact that we are reading the New York Times is a dead giveaway of which way we lean. They took a few mild but unsolicited shots at us before the last election. But I started talking to one of them a few months ago, about anything other than politics, and unbelievably he turned out to be a nice guy. Last week when we walked in he moved one of the members of his group out of “our chairs” so we could sit in them (he’s more or less the ringleader of the group). It was a small thing, but it was actually … well … nice.
I’ve been thinking lately about how much better off we would be if we could see each other as people — rather than market segments, or demographic categories, or economic classes, or tribes. I used to think that small talk wasn’t important, but I’ve noticed how everything changes when you make a human connection. A long time ago I drove across the United States by myself a few times. When I was starving for a human connection, I would chat up whoever was working at Wendy’s. It made a difference.
A few years ago, I was working in Milwaukee and my wife and I lived downtown. We would go to a different coffee shop then, one with a lot of homeless people coming in and trying to sleep on their couches. We noticed a very nervous middle-aged guy who was there by himself all the time. I will call him George. He started talking to us. Once you got past all the fidgeting, he was a very smart guy. But he was going through a rough time, living at the Salvation Army and trying to recover from alcoholism. One Saturday he was even more nervous than usual when he came up to me, hands shaking, and asked — with difficulty- for $25. He said that he needed to get his meds and didn’t have any money. I gave him the money. We ran into George again a few times before we left town and he was holding down a job and doing better, but still visibly shaking. A year after we left Milwaukee, we went back for a few days while on vacation and went to a diner a few miles from the coffee shop. George was there. He looked fantastic, he totally remembered us, and he showed me pictures of his daughter, with whom he was now reunited. We talked for a few minutes and then he left. But later on, when I went to pay the bill, the waitress informed me that George had already covered our wine. What started out as a small thing — giving $25 to someone who clearly needed it — was now a bigger thing — at least to my wife and I, and it seems like also to George.
I’m not sure how we solve all the world’s difficult problems, which if I check out the news seem to be growing by the day. But I think we might start by seeing each other without judging first… really seeing each other .. and listening to each other.
What do you think?
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