Blue Skies
06-11-2007, 01:26 PM
This story really touched a sore spot in me and made me suddenly cry, since I've been doing a lot of thinking lately about the ways in which I vent (or don't vent) my own anger, pain, annoyance, frustration...
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Reconsidering what we gain by having the last word with strangers
by Sara Campos
A few years ago, my family and I adopted a mutt we named Chula -- a honey-colored Rhodesian ridgeback look-alike. Ever since she was a pup, my daughters and I have walked her before school. As we'd make our way through the cafe latte crowd, most folks would smile. Some would chat. More people knew Chula's name than knew mine or my daughters'. Berkeley abounds in dog lovers.
But one day, when we were returning from our stroll, we encountered two women jogging toward us; one was tall with tight curls, the other was shorter with straight brown hair and glasses. They looked about my age -- somewhere in the vicinity of middle age.
We were walking across the street from our house on a patch of sidewalk that narrows because of dense foliage. Only two people can comfortably pass at a time. My 8-year-old held Chula's leash and pulled her away from the path, allowing the women to pass. But when they came within a few feet from us, they wouldn't budge. Chula, perhaps sensing tension, began barking and whipping her tail.
"I'm afraid of dogs. I'm afraid of dogs," said one of the women.
"Don't worry, she won't bite," I said.
The woman eyed our dog nervously. "Lady, you need to control your dog," she said.
"We're holding her," I said, trying to reassure her, "Go ahead and pass."
But the women didn't. Instead, they ran in place, sweating. One of them was becoming more and more agitated, as was my dog. "Lady, your dog is out of control," she yelled.
I could feel my heart pounding. "Just pass," I said, in not the nicest tone.
They finally jogged on. But as soon as they did, one of them yelled, "*****!"
I stood there seething.
"What's a *****?" asked my 5-year-old.
"It's a female dog," answered her older sister.
"It's a bad word," I said, "You shouldn't use it."
I hate street confrontations. People seem to be at their very worst with strangers. I've seen mature, mild-mannered people morph into vicious thugs on the street. Talk about rabid! It's as though we are all flammable, always ready to spew pent-up anger. And whoever has the last word wins.
Although I am a lawyer and no stranger to conflict, the incident with the joggers stayed with me. I considered quick-witted retorts. Later I realized I could have backed away, crossed the street and escaped to the safety of my home. But that would have felt so unsatisfying. I hate not standing my ground and feeling like a wimp. When I was a kid, I spoke English with a thick accent -- a walking target for bullies. I didn't stand up for myself then, but I can now. Does that mean I ought to be ready with sassy sound-bites for ill-tempered strangers? I wasn't sure.
From time to time, over the next two years, we noticed the joggers. I recognized them because of their distinctive hair. Each time we saw them, we averted our eyes. Sometimes we glowered at them.
A few months ago, when I was walking Chula with my youngest daughter, a woman approached me. Oh no, I thought, another busybody is going to chastise me about my dog. This woman was wearing a tailored blazer. I didn't recognize her.
"Two years ago," she started, "I was jogging with my friend and ran into you. I've thought about that day many times. I acted rudely and I'm sorry. You see, my son had just died. I wasn't myself."
I heard the woman's words and gasped. "I'm so sorry," I said, clutching my little girl with one hand and my dog's leash with the other. I looked more closely at the woman. Beneath her rose-hued bifocals, I saw deep lines around her eyes. I had thought she was about my age but she now she appeared older. I could see pain embedded in her face.
"You've learned to control your dog," she said.
"She's matured a little," I said, still thinking about her son.
"I'm still scared of dogs," she said, "but I wanted you to know that I'm not the kind of person who lashes out at people."
After we parted, I asked my daughter if she recognized the woman.
"She was one of the joggers," she said.
Later, I began thinking that everyone has a backstory. Not all are as dramatic as the loss of a child. But each of us suffers pain and bears emotional scars. It's easier to vent them on anonymous strangers than on people we know. Dehumanizing them allows us to scream at them, scapegoat them, even declare war and drop a bomb on them. But that changes when we realize that the object of our anger is human, just like the rest of us.
All this makes me reconsider what we gain by having the last word with strangers. Responding with anger simply perpetuates a vicious cycle, as does modeling the behavior in front of our children. Maybe the next time my dog gets me into trouble, I'll remember the joggers, hold my head up and walk away.
____________________________________
by Sara Campos
http://www.sfgate.com/cgi-bin/article.cgi?f=/c/a/2007/06/10/CMG6VPLEGH1.DTL&hw=chula&sn=001&sc=1000
____________________________________
Reconsidering what we gain by having the last word with strangers
by Sara Campos
A few years ago, my family and I adopted a mutt we named Chula -- a honey-colored Rhodesian ridgeback look-alike. Ever since she was a pup, my daughters and I have walked her before school. As we'd make our way through the cafe latte crowd, most folks would smile. Some would chat. More people knew Chula's name than knew mine or my daughters'. Berkeley abounds in dog lovers.
But one day, when we were returning from our stroll, we encountered two women jogging toward us; one was tall with tight curls, the other was shorter with straight brown hair and glasses. They looked about my age -- somewhere in the vicinity of middle age.
We were walking across the street from our house on a patch of sidewalk that narrows because of dense foliage. Only two people can comfortably pass at a time. My 8-year-old held Chula's leash and pulled her away from the path, allowing the women to pass. But when they came within a few feet from us, they wouldn't budge. Chula, perhaps sensing tension, began barking and whipping her tail.
"I'm afraid of dogs. I'm afraid of dogs," said one of the women.
"Don't worry, she won't bite," I said.
The woman eyed our dog nervously. "Lady, you need to control your dog," she said.
"We're holding her," I said, trying to reassure her, "Go ahead and pass."
But the women didn't. Instead, they ran in place, sweating. One of them was becoming more and more agitated, as was my dog. "Lady, your dog is out of control," she yelled.
I could feel my heart pounding. "Just pass," I said, in not the nicest tone.
They finally jogged on. But as soon as they did, one of them yelled, "*****!"
I stood there seething.
"What's a *****?" asked my 5-year-old.
"It's a female dog," answered her older sister.
"It's a bad word," I said, "You shouldn't use it."
I hate street confrontations. People seem to be at their very worst with strangers. I've seen mature, mild-mannered people morph into vicious thugs on the street. Talk about rabid! It's as though we are all flammable, always ready to spew pent-up anger. And whoever has the last word wins.
Although I am a lawyer and no stranger to conflict, the incident with the joggers stayed with me. I considered quick-witted retorts. Later I realized I could have backed away, crossed the street and escaped to the safety of my home. But that would have felt so unsatisfying. I hate not standing my ground and feeling like a wimp. When I was a kid, I spoke English with a thick accent -- a walking target for bullies. I didn't stand up for myself then, but I can now. Does that mean I ought to be ready with sassy sound-bites for ill-tempered strangers? I wasn't sure.
From time to time, over the next two years, we noticed the joggers. I recognized them because of their distinctive hair. Each time we saw them, we averted our eyes. Sometimes we glowered at them.
A few months ago, when I was walking Chula with my youngest daughter, a woman approached me. Oh no, I thought, another busybody is going to chastise me about my dog. This woman was wearing a tailored blazer. I didn't recognize her.
"Two years ago," she started, "I was jogging with my friend and ran into you. I've thought about that day many times. I acted rudely and I'm sorry. You see, my son had just died. I wasn't myself."
I heard the woman's words and gasped. "I'm so sorry," I said, clutching my little girl with one hand and my dog's leash with the other. I looked more closely at the woman. Beneath her rose-hued bifocals, I saw deep lines around her eyes. I had thought she was about my age but she now she appeared older. I could see pain embedded in her face.
"You've learned to control your dog," she said.
"She's matured a little," I said, still thinking about her son.
"I'm still scared of dogs," she said, "but I wanted you to know that I'm not the kind of person who lashes out at people."
After we parted, I asked my daughter if she recognized the woman.
"She was one of the joggers," she said.
Later, I began thinking that everyone has a backstory. Not all are as dramatic as the loss of a child. But each of us suffers pain and bears emotional scars. It's easier to vent them on anonymous strangers than on people we know. Dehumanizing them allows us to scream at them, scapegoat them, even declare war and drop a bomb on them. But that changes when we realize that the object of our anger is human, just like the rest of us.
All this makes me reconsider what we gain by having the last word with strangers. Responding with anger simply perpetuates a vicious cycle, as does modeling the behavior in front of our children. Maybe the next time my dog gets me into trouble, I'll remember the joggers, hold my head up and walk away.
____________________________________
by Sara Campos
http://www.sfgate.com/cgi-bin/article.cgi?f=/c/a/2007/06/10/CMG6VPLEGH1.DTL&hw=chula&sn=001&sc=1000