I'm having tea with a girlfriend in a public place. A man we both know stops to talk. Though I've known him for years he is a nodding acquaintance only. Someone you know without really knowing, probably met at a long ago PTA meeting or soccer game.
Today he seems agitated. He sits, then stands, then sits again. He begins to ask pointed questions about my religious upbringing. It reminds me of the street preachers that used to hang about campus when I was in college, the ones who often confused my relaxed disposition for a malleable mind.
He stands again and begins to pace. There is a quality of controlled franticness to his movements. He launches into a monologue about his responsibility to correct his brothers and sisters. He describes the methods he has for doing this. Most depend upon inducing guilt and feelings of worthlessness in his target, in his mind a necessary condition before they can realize the error of their ways.
He stops pacing abruptly and looks first at my girlfriend and then at me, as if choosing. We sip our tea. We are sisters at some deep level, but with personalities as different as Kung Fu and Tai Chi. He decides on Tai Chi.
He pulls a chair over, sits too close, and stares into my eyes with an intensity designed to intimidate. Then in a chastising tone he lists what he sees as my failings. These are surprisingly minor - but then he barely knows me. His face is hard, authoritarian, as if demanding I break down and weep my repentance. I smile politely into his eyes as if I am pleasantly deaf.
Nearly half a minute passes. Our eyes are locked, his demanding my submission, mine happily clueless. Across the table Kung Fu is silent with interest. His neck muscles bunch beneath the strength of his emotion as he wills me, wills me, to respond. What does he want, I wonder. Shame, humiliation, subjugation? Does he expect me to defend myself against his accusations of trifling sins like too much soda, too much mother-pride, too spoiled an existence, serenity he claims is rooted in arrogance rather than humility. I continue to smile into his eyes, wordless. His face reddens. Veins bulge. I begin to think he will have a stroke. I take pity.
"How is your family?" I ask sweetly. Like a lion tamer who's swaggered into a cage whip in hand only to find that his adversary is a kitten, he seizes the opportunity to exit with some dignity.
"You're too kind, playing dumb," Kung Fu says. "I would have punched him in the gut, verbally of course."
Part of me wanted to. But not long after that I hear through the grapevine that that day was one of the worst of his life. Things had happened to him, big things, before he crossed my path, that had left him angry and humiliated and heartbroken. In pain, he wanted to inflict pain on another, and for whatever reason he chose me.
God bless him.
Something that's helping me write today: the reminder that it's easier to write about life if you get out there and live it.
Today he seems agitated. He sits, then stands, then sits again. He begins to ask pointed questions about my religious upbringing. It reminds me of the street preachers that used to hang about campus when I was in college, the ones who often confused my relaxed disposition for a malleable mind.
He stands again and begins to pace. There is a quality of controlled franticness to his movements. He launches into a monologue about his responsibility to correct his brothers and sisters. He describes the methods he has for doing this. Most depend upon inducing guilt and feelings of worthlessness in his target, in his mind a necessary condition before they can realize the error of their ways.
He stops pacing abruptly and looks first at my girlfriend and then at me, as if choosing. We sip our tea. We are sisters at some deep level, but with personalities as different as Kung Fu and Tai Chi. He decides on Tai Chi.
He pulls a chair over, sits too close, and stares into my eyes with an intensity designed to intimidate. Then in a chastising tone he lists what he sees as my failings. These are surprisingly minor - but then he barely knows me. His face is hard, authoritarian, as if demanding I break down and weep my repentance. I smile politely into his eyes as if I am pleasantly deaf.
Nearly half a minute passes. Our eyes are locked, his demanding my submission, mine happily clueless. Across the table Kung Fu is silent with interest. His neck muscles bunch beneath the strength of his emotion as he wills me, wills me, to respond. What does he want, I wonder. Shame, humiliation, subjugation? Does he expect me to defend myself against his accusations of trifling sins like too much soda, too much mother-pride, too spoiled an existence, serenity he claims is rooted in arrogance rather than humility. I continue to smile into his eyes, wordless. His face reddens. Veins bulge. I begin to think he will have a stroke. I take pity.
"How is your family?" I ask sweetly. Like a lion tamer who's swaggered into a cage whip in hand only to find that his adversary is a kitten, he seizes the opportunity to exit with some dignity.
"You're too kind, playing dumb," Kung Fu says. "I would have punched him in the gut, verbally of course."
Part of me wanted to. But not long after that I hear through the grapevine that that day was one of the worst of his life. Things had happened to him, big things, before he crossed my path, that had left him angry and humiliated and heartbroken. In pain, he wanted to inflict pain on another, and for whatever reason he chose me.
God bless him.
Something that's helping me write today: the reminder that it's easier to write about life if you get out there and live it.
