I learned an old man’s life story yesterday.
I was supposed to be working with my client, my home case who is absolutely determined to hate me, getting in another chunk of hours. But she was out running errands with a family member and wasn’t at the house when I got there, even though I had called ahead before coming. So there I was, being told that she should be back in about ten minutes, but in actuality having a whole hour to fill. I finished my notes and opened my puzzle book, not really able to focus on any of the words and shapes in front of me. So instead I watched her grandfather sharpen knives and expertly carve at a large hunk of pork. Seeing me watching him, he smiled and, in his heavy Spanish accent, he explained, “I don’t cook much anymore. It’s too much work. I used to cook in a hotel restaurant for 7,000 people a day, so I don’t really like cooking anymore.”
After that, it only took my fascinated questions and prompts to keep him talking. About how he started working when he was nine years old, and used to wash laundry by hand in the river. About going to school when there was still corporal punishment, his teachers acting as a second father figure. About coming to the United States in 1955 with only one other friend and no jacket, since he’d never dealt with cold weather before. About meeting his wife while working on a blueberry farm in Florida, a widow with two children, and marrying her in 1988.
It was the best conversation I’ve had all week, perhaps all month. Everything he said was fresh and new and fascinating, and all I had to do was keep moving him along by show him I was interested. This is the beauty of listening, and I’m constantly baffled that so many people fail to see it. People will tell you these things, will tell you almost anything, if you just sit there and say ”please, tell me more, I’m not going anywhere and I won’t interrupt, I promise. Just keep talking.” Sitting there, I was amazed that I was given so much insight into who this man was, when there was no reason for me to know except for my interest in the telling. I also wondered if my client, his granddaughter, knew half of these things about him, or would ever think to ask. Because the trick is, of course, that you must ask; otherwise people won’t tell you a damn thing.
This, of course, is not what my job is; not exactly. My job isn’t nearly as comfortable or instinctive, but rather trial and error and more errors and more trials. It is staying calm in the face of expletives and disrespect and tantrums. Well, not only staying calm, but grabbing hold in the midst of that and trying to carve healthier behaviors out of the destructive ones. I don’t think that I succeed at this second step very often, if ever, but I do stay calm and haven’t given up yet, so I suppose that is it’s own form of triumph.
It’s just…every day I work with these kids, I want to show and explain to them the strength in gentleness, which few adults even get, so how are they supposed to? How can I find a way to demonstrate this client–who looks at me with disgust because I don’t get angry or fight back, because I’m not aggressive but rather a soft, quiet person–how can I show her that I am stronger than she will ever be if she keeps going down this impulsive, disrespectful path?
I don’t mean it in an insulting way. I mean in a way that I am becoming fully aware of my strengths, as I am becoming equally aware that many people see these strengths as weaknesses. But they’re not. There is power in gentleness, in empathy, in taking the time to be aware of people as more than just props in your own life. There is a worth in other people, and taking time to get to know them, and reminding yourself that you are not the star of your own personal vacuum. There is a worth and a strength and a power and …I wish I could use it better. I wish I could share it and channel it and use it as strongly as I feel it.
I wish that I could, but I don’t seem to be able to just yet. So for now, it’s just channeling more patience, and more calm, and grabbing every opportunity I get to listen and understand. And maybe one day I’ll have my own kitchen, and my own stranger, and my own story to tell.
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