he wore a red golf shirt every day. his hair, graying, was parted on the side, tucked behind silver glasses too big for his face. he was older, almost retired, and walked slowly, deliberately.
to talk to him was a game of roulette, to chance a good mood or a sour one. his office, at the end of the hall, never had visitors. he was quick with a snappy comeback, arched eyebrow of suspicion, and sigh of defeat. but he was excellent at what he did, so no one bothered him. no family pictures decorated his office, only a whiteboard and clock.
it was my first job, one of my first co-workers. my heart was too tender for his caustic demeanor, and i tried to avoid confrontation, only running into him in the kitchen, pouring black coffee into his stained mug. he smugly laughed at my optimism and "have a great day" salutations.
then one day, someone told me something about him. about why he avoided family pictures and corporate christmas parties, with all their spousal small talk.
the tragedies, deaths and losses that hung like broken limbs on his weeping willow of a family tree.
the tragedies, deaths and losses that hung like broken limbs on his weeping willow of a family tree.
all of a sudden, i began to see his abrasiveness as hurt. as agony. as a grief too hard to bear and contain internally, so it spilled over outside of him, onto his clothes, his expression, his pursed lips and his feet that dragged.
and i felt so bad for judging him.
because we never, ever know all the burdens people are carrying. stories can be personal, deep and hidden.
if you pull up beside me in the car and see me singing, i appear like a silly, 20-something girl. primarily because it's probably katy perry or kesha. and i'm probably drumming on my steering wheel.
but did you know it's because when i sing, it's the absolute only time i don't stutter? and i'm a terrible singer. oh my goodness. so awful. but i sing all the time for relief. of the glottal blocks and brick walls that rear their nasty heads when i speak. but you didn't know that, and you can't get that from a stoplight encounter.
and you sometimes can't even get that from years of experience with someone. from working with them. shoot, from living with them.
everyone's fighting a battle, whether obvious or not. but we're not mind readers. sometimes we don't have the luxury of peeling away those layers. we just can't do it.
but we can love them. and accept them. and go about our day without questioning or judging how they live theirs. because sometimes a song isn't just a song, and a mean-spirited snap isn't just a bad day. and sometime we're going to need that exact same acceptance.
i don't work with that man anymore, but i hope he's happy somewhere. and singing.
everyone's fighting a battle, whether obvious or not. but we're not mind readers. sometimes we don't have the luxury of peeling away those layers. we just can't do it.
but we can love them. and accept them. and go about our day without questioning or judging how they live theirs. because sometimes a song isn't just a song, and a mean-spirited snap isn't just a bad day. and sometime we're going to need that exact same acceptance.
i don't work with that man anymore, but i hope he's happy somewhere. and singing.
