It’s a pitiful scene–an obviously homeless guy staring longingly in the store window at the goods that he cannot afford. He hopes for better days ahead. His bags contain all his worldly possessions.
At least that’s the way I see it; that’s my snap judgment.
Maybe that’s the danger–it’s the way I see it. I have no way of knowing what the truth really is.
On my way to work this morning, my own pack was flung over my back containing the necessities for my day: lunch, coffee thermos, a book, iPhone charger, train schedules, camera, dental floss.
One missing essential from my backpack is an extra pair of clean underpants (in case I “were ever in an accident,” so I’ve been advised). But I believe if I go down that road, I’m concerned that I might actually consider undergoing a refreshing underwear change prior to an accident. Then the unexpected accident event might occur, and my rescuers would discover inexplicable dirty underwear in my backpack; that’s why I leave the clean underwear out of my pack.
So I was on my way to work this morning, hiking to catch the train, a podcast speaking through my Klipsch earbuds. Just ahead of me, a shabbily-dressed middle-aged man with a healthy head of black hair crossed the sidewalk.
Then he stopped, and he spewed his observations in my direction.
“You people catching the train always look like third-graders, wearing your backpacks to school!”
I removed my earbuds to hear him more clearly.
“Oh, yeah,” he continued, “and you people always have your cool earphones on!” He pointed to his ears and made a grimace.
Maybe he was looking for a fight. If so, I disappointed him. I kept walking. Nonetheless, the diatribe of this obviously imbalanced individual flustered me.
Maybe he hated me for no reason. Maybe he hated the lunch in my backpack. Maybe he hated all train riders.
Maybe he hated all third-graders. I examined myself and concluded that I did, indeed resemble a schoolboy, light-blue plaid shirt, tidy black pants, and newly-cropped hair.
Then I realized it: I looked successful, and he didn’t. And I received his snap judgement, just as I had judged the homeless vagrant staring in the store window for the things he could not afford.
A prominently-placed doorbell is installed on the wall next to the door that opens from the parking lot into the building where I work. When pressed, the bell rings directly into my room, requiring that I extricate myself from my chair, terminate my other activities, and launch myself down the hallway to open the door. This occurs despite a sign above the doorbell that gives clear directions for who may use and who may not use the bell. Instead, the doorbell’s presence appears to be a sanction for all would-be building entrants to disturb my workday as many as thirty times a day.
By the time I arrive at the door, I have had time to create a full-dossier snap judgment of the demented person standing on the other side of the door.
Instead of peering through the peephole to see who is there so that I can frame my attitude, I fling the door wide open, eyes aflame and staring, mouth corners drawn downward.
And each time, after I regain my composure, I realize just how vast the judgmental swamp really is.