I'm amazed at how my
attitudes affect my perception of reality. When Jean and I moved to
the Boston area, I worried about how I would be treated by easterners
whom I characterized as pushy, hurried and unfriendly. This
characterization was shaped in part by a decades old trip to Boston.
I had negotiated the busy freeways and round-a-bouts, when I came
upon a billboard that warned 'Stop On Red Lights.' “This is a
dangerous place,” I thought; and the image stuck.
So when we moved to Boston,
I prepared myself. I was determined to be careful. I approached
these eastern strangers with caution.
Shortly after we arrived,
Jean and I began exploring neighborhoods looking for permanent
housing. During one of these evening tours, I ran against a curb and
ruptured the right front tire of one of our Prius. We stood by our
car in the gathering dusk wondering what we should do. Then a woman
drove by on her way home from work. She stopped and asked if she
could help. Meg1 lived in the house
near where we were stalled. When she saw our predicament, she
offered to drive us to our apartment. Furthermore, she told us that
her husband, Tony1, who worked the
night shift and returned at 4 a.m., would change the tire for us the
next morning. Thus reassured, we locked our disabled car and rode to
our apartment with Meg.
Sure enough, at 8 am the
next morning, Tony called and told us to drive over so that he could
change our tire. When we arrived, Tony went into his garage and
returned with a commercial jack. He hoisted the car and unscrewed
the lug bolts so he could remove the tire. But try as he might, he
couldn't budge it. The aluminum rim on the tire had welded itself to
the axle. Tony went back to his garage and returned with a sledge
hammer and a block of wood. He placed the block against the rim, and
gave it a couple of whacks. The tire popped free, and he replaced it
with our spare. As we returned his tools to the garage, I gave
thanks that Tony was one of those people who was good with his hands.
I admired his house, and he told me that he had built much of it
himself.
I thanked Tony as we left.
He said that he was just being a good neighbor. We couldn't pay Meg
and Tony for their kindness, so we thanked them with one of Jean's
homemade pecan pies.
If this had been our only
experience of neighborliness, my stereotype of easterners might have
survived intact. But this was just the first of a number of
occurrences. A few days later, Jean bought a candle for our
apartment and then realized we had no matches. She set off on foot
down Woburn's Main Street to find some. She stopped at a local
restaurant and asked if they had a book of matches that she could
buy. The woman behind the counter went back to the kitchen and
returned with a lighter. “We don't have any matches,” she said,
”but you can borrow this if you like.” Jean was flabbergasted by
this generous offer. She declined and then went to a nearby
convenience store. The owner didn't have matches for sale either,
but he gave Jean some he had under the counter.
Later, Jean and I purchased some things
for the kitchen at a local store. We told the sales woman that we
had newly arrived from the midwest. She said, “I hope people are
treating you well. Sometimes Massachusettsans are know as
'Massholes.'” We assured her that people were very kind. Jean
then asked her how she was doing. She responded by telling us of a
bout with breast cancer and the double mastectomy that resulted. We
wished her well in her healing. I left the store amazed. Here we
were, midwestern strangers on the east coast. But rather than
feeling alien, we were greeted with amazing hospitality and shared
confidences.
These positive experiences
continue as we settle into the Woburn community. Each morning we
walk to the Dunkin Donuts on Main Street. The staff now have our
orders ready when we arrive – a small half caf/half decaf coffee
and a cinnamon-raison bagel with peanut butter for Jean - a medium
decaf coffee with a toasted multigrain bagel and peanut butter for
me. We have learned the names of some of the servers and regular
customers. One of the staff, a woman with an hispanic accent, told
us she speaks five languages. A group of six church ladies have
their own special table. They come in for coffee and conversation
after attending morning mass.
Up to
now I have shared the positives in our move. Yet I would be less
than honest if I didn't acknowledge the negatives. I feel rootless
and sometimes lost. I'm no longer a resident of Madison, but I'm not
yet feeling at home in Boston. I am sometimes depressed and
unmotivated. I am frustrated that we haven't found a house.
At
this point a deeper learning is beginning to take place. Even though
I'm aware that negative stereotypes warp my understanding of reality,
I have been less aware of my presumption that “creation owes me.”
Somewhere deep inside me I assume that if I'm a good person, my life
should be free of distress and sadness. Furthermore, I carry the
unconscious belief that my judgments of right and wrong somehow carry
universal validity.
I know
in my head that “Living with soul” is not a guarantee of
happiness, nor is it a guarantee that my values are infallible. Even
when I am following my dream, I will experience setbacks and sorrows.
Even when my intentions are pure, I will not possess complete
understanding of all situations and circumstances. Yet in spite of my
head knowledge, something in me still insists that creation owes me.
I feel
I'm being treated unjustly by life, and I respond with a negative
stance toward life. I tend to see the glass as half empty. Because
I am aware of injustices in the world, I often interpreted human
intentions, particularly those of people with whom I disagree, in a
negative light. It is as if I have a negative CD playing
continuously in my head. “That person doesn't know what he's
talking about.” “Her actions are governed by greed.” “He
doesn't deserve the acclaim he is receiving.” In all of this I
refuse to acknowledge the source of my negativity. I insist that I'm
not a pessimist. I'm just being realistic.
After
I left the urban ministry with chronic fatigue syndrome in 1998, I
had a dream. A woman and I were standing by a wall that resembled
the Viet Nam war memorial. I asked my therapist why I had this dream
some 25 years after the end of the war. He replied, “Your
war is over.” His response struck with the power of a sledge
hammer. Psychologically I had been at war during my 25 year
involvement with Madison Urban Ministry. Those whom I encountered in
my struggle for justice were enemies. I was even suspicious of the
faith communities who supported MUM because they weren't strong
enough in promoting justice. I had yet to realize that justice,
without love and compassion, is sterile and judgmental - lacking in
soul.
I
still had positive hopes and visions for making our society more
just. Yet I continued to focus on the negative attributes of people
and social situations. I even defined myself in terms of my
deficits. Life, for me, was a struggle against powerful negative
institutions and forces.
For
these reasons, I came to Boston “ready to do battle” with
easterners whom I had stereotyped as pushy, hurried, and unfriendly.
Instead, I was overwhelmed by the warmth of people whom I
encountered. This life transition is challenging me to examine the
source of my negativity. I am being given the opportunity to live
more soulfully, to remain conscious of my prejudgments and my sense
of entitlement. Such soulful living is encouraged by my little
grandson, Gus. When I am with him, the child in me leaps for joy.
I'm grateful for this transition in my life, for the insights it has
engendered and for the past experiences which have led me to this
growing understanding.
1
Not their actual names.