Don't Talk to Strangers

I’m a pretty intuitive person.  Maybe it’s the storyteller in me, but I love to listen to other people’s conversations.  I think it might drive some of my friends nuts that I’m almost always double listening, but I can’t help it.  I take the way a person holds themselves, the way a stranger’s mouth wraps around her words, the silent messages she sends with her eyes, hands, body, and the tales she chooses to tell out-loud and I wrap it all into a story; an existence that I believe I’ve cracked in five minutes or less. 

I guess some people would call this being judgmental.  But trust me, the stories I conjure up aren’t always bad.  Granted, I prefer the ones where I determine someone is having an affair or I overhear bits and pieces of domestic spat and I determine in a matter of moments whose side I’m taking and why.  I’ve probably watched too much television in my lifetime. 

But I also decide lots of wonderful things about people all the time.  Like when I meet someone and I can just tell between the way they hang their laughter at the end of a sentence and the way their eyes light up when they tell a story that I’m going to love them.  Or when an accent touches my heart—a deep, southern accent with long drawn-out vowels and indiscernible consonants.  Reminds me of home.

Perhaps I notice these people because I genuinely like people.  I like the mess they make.  Even when life is riddled with despair and one piece of bad luck after another, people still do incredible things.  Really beautiful, poignant things still happen.  And even when it’s not pretty, it is often funny, instead.

I think it might be why I like kids so much.  Kids are just like adults, minus the learned traits of bitterness, political correctness, and racism.  Have you ever spent much time on a playground?  Have you ever watched the way these little people interact, before they’ve been taught not to like someone for the way they look or before they know its inappropriate to make honest, bold statements like: “You’re fat in your belly” or “Why do you have hairs in your nose?”  Once we’re grown up, we learn to only discuss such matters as fat bellies and nose hairs in doctor’s offices or in closed bedroom doors once we’ve secured the person to whom we’re about to disclose such outrageously controversial information through marriage vows (or the promise of such vows).

It’s wonderful.  Children go around playing whatever game comes to mind, regardless of how absurd, with whomever they find available for the game, making up rules as they go and proudly, boldly declaring statements that have a high chance of being entirely false.  They don’t hold back on what they want—what they like and don’t like and what they actually want to do.  And when proven wrong, they giggle at the irony (even though they can’t define that word just yet).  Or they spontaneously burst into tears, which is perhaps an even more honest response to the shit life hands you.  How many times a day would you love to either a) laugh at something inappropriate until you fall in the floor or b) burst into irrational, big, fat, salty tears over something silly?  I’d average in at about 15 times, most likely.  On a good day.

But people are funny.  I love the way we all layer in on top of each other.  I find it fascinating in places where there are no barriers—no restrictions on the kinds of people that travel to and from a place.  Places like grocery stores, hospitals, train stations, and airports.  At some point, we all gotta use these places.  Everyone from the schizophrenic middle-aged man to the elderly couple to the emo tween.  People from all walks of life uncomfortably settle in with each other, standing in lines or clumps waiting for something to happen.   And this is when the people listening is at an all-time premium.  These spaces make some people so uncomfortable that they’ll say and do ridiculous things, sheerly out of nervous discomfort.

Recently I’ve spent some time in airports and hospitals, and each time I’ve been struck by this same idea.  We’ve created all these spaces in our lives where we’re surrounded by the people who make us feel most comfortable.  We choose where we live, where we eat, where we work, where we go to the bar or out dancing.  It’s pretty unlikely that we’ll consciously choose a place for any of these activities that makes us uncomfortable—unless your yogi has told you to do it as a part of some bizarre meditative practice. 

So when we get into these spaces where we didn’t choose our company, some people flip out.  Some people carefully mask it with fake smiles and short, artificial small talk.  Some people I think are truly immune; unmoved by such shifts, perhaps because they’ve spent too much time in spaces like this, or perhaps because they simply don’t care.  But others are visibly uncomfortable.  Looking around the room casting glares and judgments, holding nothing back from their cold stares.

Coming back from Charlotte several weeks ago, I was standing in baggage claim in the Baltimore-Washington International Airport, I was up to my usual shenanigans.  Traveling alone is perhaps the best opportunity for listening to other people’s conversations.  I’m not distracted by trying to listen to the conversation I’m actually in—I can just listen, unabashedly, to others.

The baggage claim is taking a very long time.  I steal a quick glance around the room.

The couple I sat next to was returning from a vacation in the Caribbean.  They couldn’t stop touching each other.  They were older and so in love.  It was so nice to see an older couple like this clearly still loving life and confident that they’d made all the right choices along the way (even though I’m sure they didn’t always feel right at the time). 

A young girl in her early twenties, far too over-dressed for flying, was on her way home to see someone for the first time in a while.  Maybe from college?  Maybe she ran away to join the circus and was trying to return, looking freshly dressed, so that they’d all say, “You look amazing!  The circus did wonders for you!”  She fidgeted in her high heels and kept looking at her cell phone.  Perhaps wishing someone would call her.

There was a newlywed couple, so young and so J.Crew pretty.  They were fidgeting with their backpacks, practically just unloaded from last semester before being filled up for their honeymoon, nervously touching their new rings.  You could almost sense the fear they had about coming back home and giving this “just married” thing a go. 

An older, upper-class couple stood uncomfortably towards the back, hoping no one would look at them or worse, touch them.   They had their matching monogrammed totes between their legs and she clutched onto her Coach satchel like it was rare water in the Sahara.

A young man stood eagerly by the belt, unashamed to have his self-help-genre book How to Win Friends and Influence People tucked under his arm.  He rocked back and forth on his practical, black loafers.  I was pegging him as a young store manager of some corporate chain with aspirations of getting an MBA and being a CEO.   

The unfit mother of three fed her kids a happy meal, her loud, whining kids who needed anything but high-fructose corn syrup, salt, and fatty fried food.  She loudly asked them to shut-up when they started crying and the older, upper-class couple physically turned their bodies away while shaking their heads quite visibly.

A kind, middle-aged woman stood near me.  We chatted about how long it was taking and how miserable it is to fly these days.  She had a soft face and a sweet voice.  I assumed she was a nurse or maybe a teacher.  Or maybe the really nice administrative assistant at an attorney’s office.  No ring.  I’m guessing no kids.

This.  This right here.  Is just a five minute wait at a baggage claim.  Such a small part of a day but with hundreds of interactions, unspoken words, and physical exchanges.  So much to learn about the world around us in just five minutes with strangers.

I laugh inside because I think how many times a day we navigate spaces like this.  And how we teach our children to become indifferent.  To be cautious of strangers and to stay alert.  To place our monogrammed totes between our knees and hold onto our purses with death grip.  How we teach that it's rude to eavesdrop and to stare.  How we teach not to point or laugh.  Or to be honest with the things we really think.


I laugh, uncomfortably, because our purpose in these messages isn't evil.  We want to teach our children about compassion and acceptance and how not to be cruel, but unintentionally we teach another kind of cruelty.  By creating rules for unruly spaces.

And the livin's easy...

I normally don't post a lot of pictures and not a lot of words to my blog but today may be my exception.  For the last few weeks my roommate and I have been trying to make our house an even better home by overhauling the backyard.  For any of you who live in a rowhouse, you know what a challenge this can be.  At max, your yard is about 8 feet wide, and if you're lucky you get about 20-25 feet of depth.  Many of these old rowhouses have porches and garages and weirdly shaped additions and trying to make the yard into something functional can be a challenge.  Plus, the dog thinks this part of the house is entirely hers.  Down to the bees.

I was told a few years ago (although I couldn't tell you by whom because my brain just isn't as functional as it once was) that the small, charming backyards of city rowhouses are really all you ever need.  This person reminded me that even when you have acres and acres of land, you find you spend all your time in one small section of the yard.  I think this person might have been trying to make me feel better (because I sure remember using every inch of those acres growing up).  But there is something special about these backyards.  Small fences divide our homes and we truly share our yards with the entire block.  We see each other at six am with our morning coffee and at midnight with our wine glasses.  We know what each other's dogs sound like and we pay attention when things move or furniture is rearranged.  I know this would drive some people crazy, but I kind of love it.  Just another charm for me.

Plus, Cara and I are lucky.  We have gardeners next door.  In fact, our neighbors on our left have lived in their house for almost 65 years and have been gardening everyday since they moved in.

Talk about competition.  Every day I find something new blooming in their yard and they've already got the biggest tomatoes I've seen yet in anyone's garden.  Our little puny clover grass and concrete walkway was making me depressed every time I went onto our deck.  I begged the wife (aka my roommate) to do something about it and one morning she handed me a hand-drafted plan of our new backyard.  It would require a lot of building and releveling of the soil and pulling out of the existing grass, but she assured me that for under $300, I could have a yard I'd actually want to spend time in.

And she was right.  And on budget.  And I think we've done a great job as newbies.  I'm slowly finding my green thumb and Cara has been able to release her inner lumberjack.  Lacking 65 years of practice and despite the fact that we're mere renters (so we don't want to sink any real cash into this DIY project), I think we've done a splendid job.  Also, did I mention how great it is to live with a real-live handy-woman?  I mean, this girl is amazing.  If I were a lesbian, I'd so marry this woman.  Hell, I might marry her anyway.

Check out our her project (I'd like to claim more of it, but it just wouldn't be right):

Step one:  Beg, plead, and bribe roommate to build you raised beds for your flowers, herbs, and vegetables.  Fill with organic garden soil and bat guano (from Dr. Earth) and plant the shit out of those flowers, herbs, and veggies.

Step two:  Ask roommate to frame patio square and level the ground and soil.  Remember to ask sweetly and offer to make sausage biscuits.

Step three:  Ask roommate to put down gravel and sand and level it all with this handmade rake (and again, remember to offer to make cocktails and dinner).

Step four:  Sunbathe on the deck while this all goes down.  Don't forget sunscreen!  Try not to look guilty when Cara comes up for a break sweating and dying of thirst.

Step five:  Figure out how to convince the dog that the new hole for the patio isn't a sandbox, litterbox for the alley cats, OR a mini-beach (warning: this step involves bribes and treats)

Step six:  Lay pavers, fill with sand, and layer the mulch.

Step seven: Plant rose bush for good luck.

Step eight:  Invite over friends for a BBQ and make sure the patio is dance-proof.  Play James Brown.  Serve corn.  (Yet to be completed).

First major DIY project of the summer: COMPLETE.  Just in time to sit outside and sip mint juleps.  Thanks, wife. 

And no, you can't have her.

Old Soul Mama with Swirly Notebook and Sense of Humor

This past semester I took a graduate course in personality development.  It was an interesting course—mostly based in educational psychology—but interesting for teachers and future teachers, and certainly something very useful for anyone going into the field of education.  One of the first assignments in the class was for each of us to give ourselves a rough assessment of our own personality.

Who do we think we are?  How do others see us?

These are vastly enormous philosophical questions that require hemming and hawing—and the picking up and jostling around of an expensive glass of bourbon on just a few the rocks.  And wafting.  Lots of wafting (ever noticed how this makes you look more philosophical?)

Every time someone asks me this type of question I get that sinking feeling in my stomach like the one I get when I’m at a conference and all of the sudden I realize we’re about to be asked to play an icebreaker…with strangers.  Or worse, when I’m at a baby or bridal shower and it’s all chips and dips and BAM!  A game.  No, I do not want to guess what kind of candy bar has been melted in that pamper.  And I particularly have no interest in wrapping myself in toilet paper to design a “wedding gown”.  Sorry.

But when someone asks you to verbally describe yourself in front of others, you freeze.  All the things you know about yourself and have spent so many years learning (and so many sessions in therapy verbalizing) go out the window and you stand with your mouth ajar and make the noises of a teenager in a pop quiz in History class, ”uhh…umm...like, whatever.” 

Of course if we had had an entire week to do this assignment—we’d be in a different blog.  We’d all write the things we really think about ourselves, edit it down with a critical eye, read it out loud to someone who wouldn’t judge us for our outright self-righteousness before removing the lines that make us sound like utter assholes, and submit a short, well-written succinct piece on who we are—and we’d all look like great people.  And let’s be honest, despite our best efforts, we can’t all be great people.  Things like genetics and shitty situations happen.  Turns out, shitheads, unfortunately, are unavoidable.  Biology is a bitch.

So needless to say, I struggled with this one.  I looked around the room as the teachers in the room did what teachers do best.  They make lists.  Beautifully written, short, well-organized lists that described their qualities.  Quickly and quietly.  Over here in “experiential learning land”, I’m all over the place, doodling in circles and trying to make my list happen (and wishing I had crayons).  I’m over-interpreting the prompt and taking my questions to a deep place that I’m not sure our professor really asked for.  I just took it there; because this is what happens in my brain.  Sometimes I just want the goddamned list to happen.  Maybe I’m cursed with an artist's brain (but no real artistic talent).  Lists turn into doodles which turn into ideas that I think will make great tattoos, or the start of something that will be a great story.

I sketch a scaffold in the corner of the paper while thinking—I’m….uhhh…I’m funny?  And I’m….uhhh….someone….people like? Hell.  I don’t know. 

I let the doodling brain take over.  As the concentric circles spin wildly out of control, I think to myself, “Well, for as long as I can remember my nickname has been mama.  This probably says something about me.  So I’m maternal.  And I’m like a frickin’ fifty year old trapped in the body of a 27 year old.  So I’ve got an old soul.”   30 seconds left…

“Uhh.  I’m funny?”

So, buzzer dings (hypothetical...no one actually uses a buzzer in grad school).  I’ve got: Mama, Old Soul, and Funny.   I’m good enough.  I’m smart enough.  And doggonit, people like me (thanks, Stuart Smalley).  Gee.  I sound like a real crowd-pleaser.   With a notebook full of twirls.  And a hearty dose of SNL quotes.

But didn’t my $150K education give me some depth?  And haven’t I learned something with all those trips around the globe?  And haven’t all those kids I’ve worked with for the last decade taught me something about myself and the world?

Surely I’ve got more than “old soul mama with swirly notebook and sense of humor.”

The thing about quantifying who we are means that we must also qualify who we are.  And we carry so much judgment in our labels—in our –isms and our sexuality and our hobbies.  Being gay or straight looks like something, as does being a parent, or being a laborer, or being an athlete.  We have images in our heads of who these people look like—white collar, blue collar, immigrant.  We’ve already put faces on names.  And sometimes who we really are isn’t someone who we’re willing to say out loud.   And even when we’re willing—sometimes it isn’t safe.

What if who I am makes you think less of me?  What if being honest with myself makes me less likable—less successful?  These are questions people struggle with everyday, on a thousand different levels, over a thousand different variables.

In one of the many houses I’ve called home since living here in Baltimore, I found myself living next door to someone who was a registered sex offender.  I was immensely creeped out by him and found him to fit every single stereotype I’d ever had in my head about what sex offenders look like.  At some point in our neighbor-ship, however, I began to realize how sad he was.  How he was forced to wear a wicked label.  Everyone from the mailman to anyone with the internet could know his story—his dark, sordid past.  A life I’m sure he never asked for.  A sickness no one wakes up wanting.  And while I struggled with legitimately feeling bad for him, I carried a sadness for him that I couldn’t quite name. 

Because these words we use to describe ourselves can be powerful.  And the way others interpret these words can be equally powerful.  So my list didn’t happen. 

I couldn’t think of words that described what I did for a living without somehow taking away from the stories of the people I work with.   I couldn’t think of words that described my friends and family without somehow stripping away what makes them so amazing—so unique.  So beautiful.  I couldn’t think of words to describe the way I feel when I first wake up in the morning or when I hold the hand of someone I love or when I feel rain on my face or the way it smells when I kiss my baby niece on the sweet folds of skin on her legs.  I couldn’t find words to describe the way West Africa has transformed me and how I still find the hair on my arm stands straight up when I hear really good bluegrass music.  The way the arch in my back gets tingly when I’m in love and my palms get slippery when I’m nervous.  The way some boys still give me butterflies in my stomach, and how I secretly hope they always will.

The way I worry myself to sleep at night over things like words I wished I hadn’t used or situations I wished hadn’t happened.  How sometimes I care too much even when I pretend to not care at all.  How I still make bad choices, despite all my access to good ones.  How I feel guilty when I don’t walk the dog and how I sometimes stay out at lunch for too long, and I’m consistently late to work (even though I’m consistently there for 2 more hours at the end of the day).  How I get upset when someone thinks I’m someone I’m not—and how I get even more upset that I’ve let it upset me. 

It feels like there are too many things to try and fit in a list.  Too many years of experiences and stories and people to cram into a 30 second list of “who I am”.  I have scars alone that could take days to explain.

So my list, “old soul mama with swirly notebook and sense of humor”, maybe isn’t so far off after all.  I can fit a lot of me in those words.  And I think it's the start of something that will be a great story.