Subjects: Older couple enjoying a dinner out

I’m perplexed. Ok, maybe not really perplexed. Maybe I’m just shaking my head due to the fact that there was this older couple sitting across the little aisle from us last night and they were so stereotypical of what you might expect out of people who looked like they did. She with her jewelry and pinched expression and he with his izod sweater and khaki shorts. Though I did keep thinking they might be on a date, even a first date, which would make them a bit less stereotypical, and might have explained some of the uncomfortable vibes coming off their table. And I hope I don’t sound too mean, because sounding mean isn’t my intention. I’m not trying to be. It’s just that their behavior was not exactly friendly, or even respectful, and I didn’t think it would be, just based on their attire, their expressions, and their entrance. I wanted to be pleasantly surprised by them… I wasn’t.

First, they sat and ordered drinks… he a beer to go with his food, she some lemon to go in her water. She tried to order a number 13 with chicken without even really looking at the young woman giving them the water and putting the basket of chips and accompanying salsa on the table. The gentleman with her hurriedly said to her, as if embarrassed that she didn’t know the rules, she doesn’t take the order, she just brings the water and the chips. The woman, with a very strong southern accent, said… oh, Ok. She seemed nervous to be there, uncomfortable. But then again, if this was a date she very well might have been uncomfortable because of that. Could be, right…

After they get their beer and their lemon, the waitress comes to take their order who, by the way, is the same one waiting on us and also someone we like very much, and the older gent says to her, we thought you forgot about us over here…. even though it hadn’t been that long at all. Maybe 5 to 10 minutes. He tried to laugh while he said it, but he wasn’t kidding, and the waitress wasn’t laughing. Plus, they already had their beverages, with lemon, and their chips and salsa… what’s the rush. The woman then, in the same voice as earlier, without looking at the waitress, says… number 13 with chicken. The man orders his, I can’t remember what, without cheese. After ordering they make small talk about surgeries and insurance and property left to her by her father that was worth a lot for the good part of the property, but the bad part, all marsh, hasn’t sold yet and how the guy was in Texas and didn’t understand how people could live in mobile homes like that because they, to him, were inhabitable. They stop only to ask for more salsa, because she can’t eat the onions and only dips her chips in the sauce, when a young gentleman came to fill up their water glasses. He brought her more salsa.

Then the food comes, and they pray. After praying they start to eat, and hardly say another word. I mean… nothing. They eat as if they’re sitting there alone, not with each other… and that’s it. Fini.

I wonder… will I be like that? Not really paying any attention to the people working hard to bring me the food I’ve ordered or to fill the water in my glass. Will I not notice them, or when I do will I just give them a bad time about how they aren’t doing their job well, or how they’ve disappointed me by not doing it exactly as I’d like them to. Will I forget to show them respect for just being the human beings they are. I hope not.

I hope I don’t forget that they are just people who, like me, have a job. They go to work, have good days and bad, and then they go home to their lives, their friends, and their families. I hope I never get to the place that I don’t look them in the eyes or talk to them. We had a long drawn out conversation with our waitress, who also waited on the couple next to us, about her former business (she owned a coffee shop we used to frequent that had been fairly successful, but decided it took too much out of her life, that it had become her life, and she didn’t want to live like that anymore. Her solution… go to work as a waitress where she can make pretty decent money working for her brothers who own the restaurant we were in last night and who have mostly family working there… very cool, and good for her). I hope I always remember to smile, and to look people in the eye, and to be gracious. I hope I remember that we are all, to the last of us living on this tiny spinning globe, human beings with feelings, thoughts, hopes, and lives we’re living.

So far, I hope, I think I’m OK with all of that… I’m on point. I’m a person who usually thinks the best of people, or wants to anyway. And in thinking about what happened… the older couple at the table across the aisle from us, well… they too are people, maybe doing the best they could to have a night out. And maybe they were just having a bad day. Maybe they were feeling a bit off or out of sorts. Yeah, maybe that’s why they were a little less than friendly, a little less than respectful. Could be. Maybe…

I entered the room and was told to do the normal thing, take everything off above the waist and put on the robe, opening in the front. I do this, walk out into the mammogram room, and the tech asks me to have a seat. I do and we start to go over my answers to the questionnaire I’d filled out when I was in the waiting room. Had one before? Yes. When? Etc… No problem. Everything normal, though I am, as always, a bit uncomfortable sitting there with a little string barely holding the front of my gown closed. I fidget a bit, shift in my seat, but it’s all as fine as it can be so far, and…

We start the exam… right side, stand here, put this had on your waist like so, put your other hand on this handle like so, all the while the tech is grabbing my breast and trying to get it in the right position to take the shot. Then, wham, she asks the question that sets things off in a strange and otherworldly direction for me. The question… what do you do for a living? I say that I work with at risk kids and she says… OH, you DO? And it’s off and running. While she’s grabbing first one breast and then the other, interspersed with the instructions she’s giving me to get through the exam, she starts asking what glassy eyes mean, and what kinds of drugs would have what kinds of effects, and how would a parent know if their kids were doing drugs. I try to have this conversation with her normally, though the circumstances are far from normal, because as I said… she’s grabbing my breasts and manipulating them around the whole time she’s throwing these questions at me. At this point I’m feeling, shall we say, a bit less than professional. This is not my office, nor am I feeling my most confident and comfortable. She’s pushing and pulling and plopping down my breasts on a cold plate for god sakes. I’m reeling.

Finally, the exam is over. Sadly, the conversation is not. I’m trying to work my way to the little curtained area thinking… I have GOT to get out of here now… I desperately want to get out of here now. But she persists…. asking again how they would know, telling me, when I suggest they drug test their child, that she isn’t sure she wants to take that step, and is just not sure what to do. She says she’s not sure she wants to find out. And at this point, I don’t really care. Honestly. I just want to get in the little booth, take off the little robe, which is gaping open by the way, and put on my nice comfy, completely covering, bra and t-shirt. I keep my arms crossed without trying to look exposed, completely uncomfortable, and try to look her in the eyes.

At last she takes my films, which she’s been holding onto as we “chat”, and says I should take a seat while she goes out to make sure the films are good. She’s gone for awhile, and even though I’m still sitting there in my little open robe, I’m not being grilled about kid’s drug habits… reeling and feeling a bit weird still, but better because I’m alone.

Until… she comes back in, says the pics are good, and then… yes, you guessed it, she’s asking again. Would pot do this, what would cocaine do, how about ecstacy, meth… then saying to me, I think it’s pot. I try to agree, telling her yes, I believe it’s probably weed and again, you should have him tested. The whole while I’m, again, trying to inch my way over to the booth. Glancing in that direction, trying to give her cues… she doesn’t get them. But finally, gratefully, I escape into the stall, change into my clothes, and get ready to leave. At this point I would’ve been more than happy to chat with her. After all, now I’m more comfortable. But no… she’s obviously done and barely gives me a glance as I hurriedly leave the room.

I know techs in these jobs see so many women’s breasts during any given day that it’s really nothing to them. I know it’s their job. It’s like a person who washes dishes for a living… they go in, don the apron, and wash pots and pans without really ever thinking about them. It’s the same thing. The tech goes in, grabs, pushes and prods an endless parade of breasts, then goes home, thinking nothing about it. I know this. It’s just… I was on the other side of that equation. It is a big deal to me. It’s not every day that I go into a room with a total stranger, take off my top, and let someone grab my breasts and fling them up onto cold slabs. In fact, strangely enough, it’s very abnormal for me.

The moral of the story and a tip for all of you breast techs out there… You are performing a much needed service, and we thank you, but don’t try to talk shop with us while we’re in there half naked with you. We can’t concentrate. You aren’t getting us at our best. What you’re getting is a woman who can only think of one thing… I want this to be over so I can go put my clothes on, get out of here, and go on with the rest of my much more normal day. When you don’t wait, when you talk to us half naked, we can barely hear you. In fact, sometimes we see your lips move, but there’s no sound. We are like deer in the headlights. We’re a bit scattered. So please, do your job kindly, and let us go. You don’t have to make witty reparte with us. We don’t need it. Just be thorough, be quick, keep your hands warm, and let us move on.

I would bet she never did drug test her kid…

At this point I started scratching my head. Not literally mind you, but figuratively. I couldn’t believe what I had heard. Here we all were, she and her party and I with my dinner companion, sitting in a lovely little Thai place offering authentic Thai cuisine. I thought… if she wants Americanized oriental food, why didn’t she go to one of those Chinese restaurants at the mall. They always have sweet and sour chicken and pork fried rice, the “friendly” and well-known American substitute for the more exotic menu items found at a real oriental restaurant. Granted, my dinner companion and I were having Phad Thai with chicken, and Pra Ram with chicken. Maybe not the most exotic items to be found on the menu, but dishes you can say are definitely Thai. Which is why, don’t you know, we went there, and most people go there, in the first place.

So I ask… and maybe I shouldn’t, but… with all of the restaurant possibilities out there, why would a person pick one where they wouldn’t be able to find anything they liked… or more to the point, one in which they wouldn’t really want to eat anything they might find there.

I believe she ended up ordering steamed vegetables.

This whole episode got me to thinking about how much we like to, here in the good ol’ U.S. of A., homogenize everything. We want to feel like we are people of the world, in touch with cultures and customs different from our own. We like to think we are accepting of those same cultures and traditions. Sadly, many of us are not. Because when you get down to the brass tax of the situation, we don’t really want anything to be different, and we certainly don’t really want to be different from each other. It’s why mass marketing works. Buy the same toys, wear the same clothes, own the same car, and live in neighborhoods that look the same as those down the block and in the next town. We want to feel we are cultured, worldly, a part of the larger world, and yet we find it frightening, uncomfortable, and somehow a bit wrong. As in… “That’s a strange combination of foods to put together”… said in a way that conveyed all the doubt, scorn, fear, and sarcasm thrown out to the world every day by citizens of this “advanced” civilization. We want all the toys in our box to be the best, the biggest, and can find nothing redeeming in those things that are unfamiliar to us, things we feel superior to.

I shake my head when these situations present themselves to me. I wonder, how “advanced” are we, really? How much a part of the world are we? Whether we like it or not, there’s so much value, so much to be learned from other cultures. We don’t have all the answers. We don’t know what’s best for everyone, including ourselves sometimes. And you know what? That’s ok. It’s OK to not have it all figured out. It’s OK to be uncomfortable. The feeling of being uncomfortable makes us look a bit more closely, pay a bit more attention… and if we actually did pay attention we might find things outside of our immediate world that are beautiful and worth celebrating, saving, and honoring.

I had to laugh that night…. I was listening to the disdain present in the woman’s voice thinking, you are in a Thai restaurant. They have Thai food here. Why did you come to a Thai place if you didn’t want Thai food? The answer? We want to look continental, without actually being continental. We want to be able to say to our friends and family later… we had Thai food. Emphasis on the Thai. Meaning that yes, even though we live in our safe suburban neighborhoods, drive our safe SUV’s, our kids go the right schools, and we shop at the right stores… all of this taking place within a 10-mile radius of our homes, we are hip. Urban. Citizens of the world. And what’s more, we say… we understand the world. We commune with it regularly, because we, with disdain or not, eat at ethnic restaurants once in awhile. Therefore, we know, completely, what it’s all about.  Sarcasm anyone?

There was one other thing a bit disturbing about the whole incident for me. The tone. It was as if chefs in the U.S. wouldn’t put together such an odd and obviously wrong combination of ingredients. How could they? It’s just plain silly. That’s what it is. Silly. It was a bit embarrassing to me. I was embarrassed to be a part of that scene, even as a bystander, watching an arrogant person degrade another person. I wanted to hide my head.

I know I have a tendency to over think things. I do. I hear conversations and infer from them things about the people speaking that are possibly unfair. Perhaps not even a true representation of what the person or persons were trying to convey to each other and the great cosmic universe when they were talking. But, I can’t help it. Because what I think is, even a moment or two like that, a simple fragment of a conversation, does something to us, to anyone who hears it.

Bringing me to this moment and the thoughts I had about it. I know I can’t change the world, or how people are in it. But, I can listen… I can start a dialogue about it… I can wake up, if only for a moment, the collective consciousness. Knowledge is power, and if this makes even one person more aware of what they say, how they react, what they’ve thought or been… then listening to this whole episode was worth it.

Setting: Keller Auditorium, Portland, Oregon, during the Swell Season concert.

Subject: A woman sitting in the row behind us.

Sometimes you aren’t trying to hear anything, you just do. You can’t help it. You even try not to listen and you still can’t help it because she’s there. You try to concentrate on other things, block her out, ignore her. It’s impossible.

You know her. We all do. Though sometimes it’s not a her, it’s a him and honestly I don’t want to prejudice this piece by saying it’s always a woman, it isn’t. In this particular case though, it was a her. She was enthusiastic, she was very present in the moment, she was paying attention, and she was annoying. When we were asked to whistle along, she whistled with all the heart she could muster. When we were asked to sing a verse over and over, she did, and even when the band, and the rest of us, had moved on, she kept singing the verse, as if it was a life preserver and the ship was going down. She was not easily going to give up that preserver. Damn it, it was hers! When we clapped, she clapped louder. When a song was over, she yelled her appreciation. When someone on stage said something funny, you could hear her laughter ringing around the auditorium. Or at least, that’s what it seemed like. Maybe it was just my ears ringing…. hmmmm… could’ve been.

At one point I wondered, can the band hear her? Probably not, but then again, we were only in the first balcony. Not that far away. Yes, it could’ve been possible. I think she thought they could hear her and she wanted them to know she was having a good time. Because, she was most definitely having a good time. Yeah for her.

I tried to get a good look at her after the show was over, but as I peered over my shoulder she leaned over to hug the person standing next to her. She was, apparently, overcome by her experience and exhausted after the two hours she’d put in singing, whistling, clapping, and whoo hooing. Sadly, I was never able to catch a glimpse.

I never have a problem with people who are very into joining in and getting involved. To me it usually signifies a person who knows how to have fun and is not so uncomfortable with themselves that they can’t let go and get into it. I really, actually, enjoy those people. Unless… yes, here’s the unless part, they never give it a break and, and this is a big and, they are a bit too loud. So loud they overshadow what’s happening on stage so that sometimes you can’t hear the band over the fan. That was her.

I will give her credit, she sang, for the most part, on key. She had moments when she strayed off the note, but mostly… not too bad. It’s just that, and this is the point for all you enthusiastic fans out there, we wanted to hear the band, that’s why we paid for the tickets and went to the show. We didn’t pay to hear her…. as much as it seemed that she might have thought otherwise. So listen up all you participators out there. Join in, get into it, and have as much fun as humanly possible singing along all you want… just do it at a respectable level. Do it with regard to those sitting around you. You aren’t alone in the auditorium with the band. There are sometimes thousands of other people with you, who themselves want to have as much fun as humanly possible… listening to the band they came to see. Not listening to you.