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- Story Listed as: True Life For Adults
- Theme: Family & Friends
- Subject: Biography / Autobiography
- Published: 04/18/2017
Who I am might not be who you think I am.
Born 1951, M, from Wilmington NC, United StatesI have heard that in Japan, situation, context, and to whom you are speaking; determine how you speak to someone. You don’t talk to your Mother the same way you talk to your sister, or your daughter.
Nor do you talk to your wife about the same things, in the same tone of voice, when you are in the privacy of your bedroom, versus being out in Public- say in a Grocery Store or a restaurant. Even in your own home, you don’t usually speak the same way in a kitchen, that you do in a family room, or a bathroom. So maybe the Japanese have an insight that we lack in the West.
No one, is the same person to all people, in all places, at all times.
When I was younger, we went to a restaurant as a family. My Uncle Bill owned a small Insurance Agency. He and my Aunt Mariam had no children of their own, and were very generous, kind, and giving to the large families of their brothers and sisters. So once or twice a year, he would take all ten of us out to eat.
My Mother got to pick the restaurant- invariably the Old Mill Restaurant. My Dad got to pick the restaurant just once, because that trip out just happened to coincide with his birthday. He chose the Brown Derby. That was my first taste of filet mignon - still my favorite steak. Dad had a Porterhouse that was as big as his plate, my Mom had a ribeye, and everyone else but my sister Janie had a T-bone. Jane, like me, had a petite filet mignon. It was delicious, cooked to perfection, and it would be two decades until I had another filet mignon.
I am sorry for the slight side trip down memory lane, I am older now, and that often happens in my conversations- apparently, it now happens in my writings too. Dear reader, forgive me for decades that blur into moments that have little webs of forgotten feelings that seem to tangle themselves around the point of the story. Brush them aside, but be careful not to brush them off. They bring time back to you.
When I was finally old enough to be invited to join the family for the outing to the restaurant (you had to be five years old, and able to sit in a chair- not a high chair) we went to Mom’s favorite; The Old Mill Restaurant. Uncle Bill picked up the whole tab, and we could have ordered anything from the lovely selection on the menu. But…we were kids. So, hot dogs, grilled cheeses, and french fries, with Sundae’s for desert tended to be the extent of our gourmand demands.
We made both my Uncle and my Aunt smile at our narrow pickings. They always tried to suggest we try some exotic dish like: Crab, Lobster, Liver and Onions (Yech!), Chicken and Dumplings, or perhaps a Cesar Salad, or boiled cabbage with horse radish. We would politely refuse. Saving us from a wider educated palate and Uncle Bill from a bill of over a hundred dollars.
When we left that restaurant, the Maitre’D stopped us at the door. He wants to congratulate my Mom and Dad for having such well behaved children. He told my parent that our table manners were impeccable for our age, our conversation a delight to overhear, and our behavior, well he was stunned by our discipline.
I remember looking at my Dad and Mom, as this man went on and on about “…such good kids.” I saw on their faces conflicting emotions: on one hand they were overjoyed by his compliments about their children, on the other hand, they looked like they wanted a chance to offer a rebuttal- to explain to the Maitre’D that those qualities were not constants in our clan. Rather the exception to the rule. It was as if my parent were caught off guard by the mere thought that we could be anything but unruly, fidgety, and persnickety.
They offered their “Thank-you’s” to the kind man with a kind of surprised polite glow and a gentle wistfulness- almost a sigh: “If only they would behave like this all the time.”
So what does this have to do with the opening paragraph about Japan?
This: You are always you- to you. But others, be they family, friends, lovers, coworkers, colleagues, peers, or neighbors, see only glimpses, and only in certain circumstances. You don’t behave at work like you do at the Opera. My guess is you dress a bit better to see an Opera, and you act a bit more cultured, moving your conversation up from the water cooler to the nuances of climbing notes and emotional chords. Playing a good game of flag football, or tag, causes many exclamations that would get a nice fluffy bar of Ivory Soap placed firmly in your mouth by your Mom.
In said game of Flag Football with friends who you know and like, you might very well brush off a bruise, a tweaked knee, or a sprained ankle. Laughter and pain mixed in a punch made of bravado and good cheer - supported in part by a shared beer or other alcoholic beverage. Everyone would be amazed at your tolerance for pain, your shrugging off of your injury, and your lack of whining or complaining.
“That Kevin is one tough cookie. Still laughing and smiling- and being a good sport. Even though he has to limp dramatically to get that purple swollen ankle that won’t even fit in his shoe anymore- to support him enough to get to his car.”
Admiring glances follow him on his: hop, stand still, grimace- repeat, awkward gate to his car.
Oh, but what about when he gets home? What does his lovely wife, and children hear and see? A silent wounded warrior? A man oblivious to pain? A tough kid who simply says: “No big deal” and wards off any sympathy or limitations imposed on either his psyche or his mobility? No. Nay,nay, I say.
What they see and hear is a litany of how badly it hurts, how little he can do, and how he is incapacitated - unable to assist anyone in any way. He must be treated with the fragile gentleness of a prize vase. Put him in a chair, pull a stool up to place his foot on, bring him ice, food, drinks, and turn the TV towards him and watch only what he wants to watch. Do not disturb his “totally wrecked” ankle. The Doctor told him (or so he says) that it is the worst high ankle sprain he had ever seen. That he was lucky it didn’t break and shatter leaving him a cripple for life. “Rest, Ice, and don’t push yourself. Take tylenol if need be, but don’t put any weight on your foot.”
Kevin took that to mean everyone was at his beck and call, and must listen to his wails of agony to boot. It worked. For about a day. Then, well, he was left on his own to heal, scrounge for food, and limp to the bathroom.
So who is this Kevin? Warrior born and bred? Whiny little twit? Solid, silent, sufferer? Saint who never let his troubles get in the way of listening to yours? Depends.
Just like at the restaurant, just like the Japanese in then opening paragraph, and just like in life- you are a diamond at the core, but you reflect all kinds of life lights back. From some angles you glitter, sparkle, and shine- from others, well you are dull and lackluster, and uninteresting. Depends who you are with, what happened, and where- and then memories will color the event with a broad brush. Memory doesn’t share its palate with another person, so don’t be surprised when your version of events, does not match their version of events.
Just eat your grilled cheese, grow enough to sample filet mignon, and realize that at the time they were eaten, both were delights!
Who I am might not be who you think I am.(Kevin Hughes)
I have heard that in Japan, situation, context, and to whom you are speaking; determine how you speak to someone. You don’t talk to your Mother the same way you talk to your sister, or your daughter.
Nor do you talk to your wife about the same things, in the same tone of voice, when you are in the privacy of your bedroom, versus being out in Public- say in a Grocery Store or a restaurant. Even in your own home, you don’t usually speak the same way in a kitchen, that you do in a family room, or a bathroom. So maybe the Japanese have an insight that we lack in the West.
No one, is the same person to all people, in all places, at all times.
When I was younger, we went to a restaurant as a family. My Uncle Bill owned a small Insurance Agency. He and my Aunt Mariam had no children of their own, and were very generous, kind, and giving to the large families of their brothers and sisters. So once or twice a year, he would take all ten of us out to eat.
My Mother got to pick the restaurant- invariably the Old Mill Restaurant. My Dad got to pick the restaurant just once, because that trip out just happened to coincide with his birthday. He chose the Brown Derby. That was my first taste of filet mignon - still my favorite steak. Dad had a Porterhouse that was as big as his plate, my Mom had a ribeye, and everyone else but my sister Janie had a T-bone. Jane, like me, had a petite filet mignon. It was delicious, cooked to perfection, and it would be two decades until I had another filet mignon.
I am sorry for the slight side trip down memory lane, I am older now, and that often happens in my conversations- apparently, it now happens in my writings too. Dear reader, forgive me for decades that blur into moments that have little webs of forgotten feelings that seem to tangle themselves around the point of the story. Brush them aside, but be careful not to brush them off. They bring time back to you.
When I was finally old enough to be invited to join the family for the outing to the restaurant (you had to be five years old, and able to sit in a chair- not a high chair) we went to Mom’s favorite; The Old Mill Restaurant. Uncle Bill picked up the whole tab, and we could have ordered anything from the lovely selection on the menu. But…we were kids. So, hot dogs, grilled cheeses, and french fries, with Sundae’s for desert tended to be the extent of our gourmand demands.
We made both my Uncle and my Aunt smile at our narrow pickings. They always tried to suggest we try some exotic dish like: Crab, Lobster, Liver and Onions (Yech!), Chicken and Dumplings, or perhaps a Cesar Salad, or boiled cabbage with horse radish. We would politely refuse. Saving us from a wider educated palate and Uncle Bill from a bill of over a hundred dollars.
When we left that restaurant, the Maitre’D stopped us at the door. He wants to congratulate my Mom and Dad for having such well behaved children. He told my parent that our table manners were impeccable for our age, our conversation a delight to overhear, and our behavior, well he was stunned by our discipline.
I remember looking at my Dad and Mom, as this man went on and on about “…such good kids.” I saw on their faces conflicting emotions: on one hand they were overjoyed by his compliments about their children, on the other hand, they looked like they wanted a chance to offer a rebuttal- to explain to the Maitre’D that those qualities were not constants in our clan. Rather the exception to the rule. It was as if my parent were caught off guard by the mere thought that we could be anything but unruly, fidgety, and persnickety.
They offered their “Thank-you’s” to the kind man with a kind of surprised polite glow and a gentle wistfulness- almost a sigh: “If only they would behave like this all the time.”
So what does this have to do with the opening paragraph about Japan?
This: You are always you- to you. But others, be they family, friends, lovers, coworkers, colleagues, peers, or neighbors, see only glimpses, and only in certain circumstances. You don’t behave at work like you do at the Opera. My guess is you dress a bit better to see an Opera, and you act a bit more cultured, moving your conversation up from the water cooler to the nuances of climbing notes and emotional chords. Playing a good game of flag football, or tag, causes many exclamations that would get a nice fluffy bar of Ivory Soap placed firmly in your mouth by your Mom.
In said game of Flag Football with friends who you know and like, you might very well brush off a bruise, a tweaked knee, or a sprained ankle. Laughter and pain mixed in a punch made of bravado and good cheer - supported in part by a shared beer or other alcoholic beverage. Everyone would be amazed at your tolerance for pain, your shrugging off of your injury, and your lack of whining or complaining.
“That Kevin is one tough cookie. Still laughing and smiling- and being a good sport. Even though he has to limp dramatically to get that purple swollen ankle that won’t even fit in his shoe anymore- to support him enough to get to his car.”
Admiring glances follow him on his: hop, stand still, grimace- repeat, awkward gate to his car.
Oh, but what about when he gets home? What does his lovely wife, and children hear and see? A silent wounded warrior? A man oblivious to pain? A tough kid who simply says: “No big deal” and wards off any sympathy or limitations imposed on either his psyche or his mobility? No. Nay,nay, I say.
What they see and hear is a litany of how badly it hurts, how little he can do, and how he is incapacitated - unable to assist anyone in any way. He must be treated with the fragile gentleness of a prize vase. Put him in a chair, pull a stool up to place his foot on, bring him ice, food, drinks, and turn the TV towards him and watch only what he wants to watch. Do not disturb his “totally wrecked” ankle. The Doctor told him (or so he says) that it is the worst high ankle sprain he had ever seen. That he was lucky it didn’t break and shatter leaving him a cripple for life. “Rest, Ice, and don’t push yourself. Take tylenol if need be, but don’t put any weight on your foot.”
Kevin took that to mean everyone was at his beck and call, and must listen to his wails of agony to boot. It worked. For about a day. Then, well, he was left on his own to heal, scrounge for food, and limp to the bathroom.
So who is this Kevin? Warrior born and bred? Whiny little twit? Solid, silent, sufferer? Saint who never let his troubles get in the way of listening to yours? Depends.
Just like at the restaurant, just like the Japanese in then opening paragraph, and just like in life- you are a diamond at the core, but you reflect all kinds of life lights back. From some angles you glitter, sparkle, and shine- from others, well you are dull and lackluster, and uninteresting. Depends who you are with, what happened, and where- and then memories will color the event with a broad brush. Memory doesn’t share its palate with another person, so don’t be surprised when your version of events, does not match their version of events.
Just eat your grilled cheese, grow enough to sample filet mignon, and realize that at the time they were eaten, both were delights!
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