Judgment – Snail Trek Blog

Virus Diaries: Gray Flamingos

It takes several years for a young phoenicopterus roseus’ feathers to evolve into the handsome salmon-pink hue that we associate with them. Before their feathers turn vivid shades of color, flamingos are, well, gray.

Yes, flamingos start out gray. It’s their diet of algae and invertebrates that gives flamingos their color. So as young birds age, they take on their color.

Recently, I’ve noticed a similar thing happening with homo sapiens. Young individuals of this group are identified by healthy, supple skin in varying shades of tan or brown or pink or golden hues, all attractive in their own right. Lovely creatures.

Yet as they age, some of these beings take on unnatural characteristics. Subtle at first, bluish or reddish tints become more pronounced over time. Given the right circumstances, these colors can grow shockingly vivid.

So, like flamingos, as young humans age, they can gradually take on these colors. Startling, really, to see the pronounced blue or red hues predominate.

Gradually, like flamingos, they form their own social groups, each with its own novel identity, bonds formed stronger over time. The Bluish group on this side, the Reddish group on that side.

Such a group, in flamingo parlance, is known as a “stand,” or a “regiment,”— military words.

Interestingly, if a flamingo’s diet is changed, with a lessening of the pink-inducing dietary influences, its color will moderate and return to its natural grayish-white color.

During times of particularly disagreeable political turmoil, there is yet hope that artificially-generated human Blue and Red colors may also fade, tones reverting closer to their God-given hues. And with that, our own group-identified “stands,” and “regiments” may yet become less than permanent, militarized fixtures.

Like the flamingos, achieving that will likely also require a change in our own diet.

The Yellow Zone

Recently, I’ve noticed that my Yellow Zone has been shrinking. Not overnight, but there’s been a long, slow withdrawal from the Yellow Zone. The Yellow Zone lies between the Green Zone and the Red Zone, as a sort of virtual buffer.

To help explain, let me introduce the Green Zone. It’s all the stuff that is enjoyable to me: the kinds of activities that I like, the people whom I find agreeable with my perspective, the brands I like, and the values I endorse. I’m comfortable here, in the Green Zone.

At the opposite end is the Red Zone. It holds everything that I know is wrong and that I find despicable: murder, thievery, dirty streets, phone solicitations, many politicians, and everything that is evil and vile.

The Yellow Zone is reserved for everything else. Things that are perfectly acceptable. Things that don’t deserve judgment. Perceptions that aren’t important. Words spoken in ignorance. Unintended actions. The Yellow Zone is a place of comfort.

The recent events are troubling, but true. Recently, my Yellow Zone has been shrinking, even as my Red Zone is noticeably bloating. More and more stuff is migrating towards the Red Zone because more and more things are aggravating me. “Why did he say it that way?” “Doesn’t she know better?” “They always act that way!”

I wasn’t always this way: over-correcting, under-appreciating, judging, strangling the tiniest, most unimportant and innocent details. Doggone it, I have the right to be Right, and to be sure that They know it!

But life in the ever-smaller, constricted Yellow Zone is now becoming miserable. The life of quick reactions, self-righteousness and hyper-criticism is pushing everything into the Red Zone. With so much leaving, It’s getting lonely in the Yellow Zone.

But now I’ve had enough of the Red Zone! Now I’m going back to the Yellow Zone. I’m going to renovate it. I’m going to make it more liveable, less conflicting, less judgmental. I’m going to put leaden weights all around the perimeter so the edges don’t roll in.

Then I’m going to set up some easy chairs smack dab in the middle of the Yellow Zone. I’ll send out invitations.

The Yellow Zone should now be big enough for us all.

Snap Judgments

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.

Outcast Trash

“Whose trash is this in my trashcan?”

The outburst erupted from my neighbor, whose office is just across the hall from mine. My hallmate is typically kind, reserved, and polite. But not today.

“Look at this stuff in my trashcan! Who has the right to dump their stuff into my trashcan?” She was furious at the fact that someone, apparently walking down the hall and in need of disposing of rubbish, spotted her trashcan just inside her unlocked office door and discarded unwanted items in her personal trashcan.

I had never before pondered the concept of personal trash, especially when the offices are housed within a state agency.

On the other hand, maybe working in a state agency adds legitimacy to the notion of personalized trash. Perhaps, since none of us owns anything in the building save the clothes on our back, our trash becomes a desperate expression of our individual identities.

So—perhaps there should be a certain sense of injustice when someone disposes of something in our trash can without permission, mingling their unapproved garbage with our own. Sure, in a sense we’ve already disowned our trash by disposing of it in the trashcan, but just before that, darn it, it was ours! We had the power to choose whether to keep it or lose it; we enjoyed total dominion over it while it was still ours. It was our gum wrapper wrapped around our discarded gum that we chomped like cud all the way to work after the near-mishap with the eighteen-wheeler on the freeway. It was our own t-shirt, shredding from wear, that we had worn to the concert with that special someone who broke our heart; when the arm pit fabric ripped at work, we covered ourselves in a too-warm sweater as we grieved and fended off quizzical looks from our coworkers the rest of the day. It was our broken porcelain mug from that once-ever trip to Prague that fell off our desk and shattered.

And now our sacred trash is being spoiled by fabric-staining used tea bags and filthy scum-soaked paper towels. What gives them the right?

To be fair, there was nothing sacrosanct about my hallmate’s trash. Had we been in India, it would have qualified in the lowest-caste variety—the “untouchables” of the trash heap. It held no higher pedigree than the vagrant off-cast that she deemed had polluted her own particular rubbish. Sure, there might be a gaping hole in the logic of personalizing discarded waste, but somehow, the co-mingling of deposited trash can rile us.

The “not my trash” movement has finally made it into the office building. For decades, we’ve managed to avoid the personalizing of our own trash by exporting it all over the globe for disposal. Let Thailand take our toxic rubbish, whether computer monitors, decrepit cell phones, or toys gently emitting low levels of radiation into the cribs of unsuspecting babies. Bare-footed men on the coast of Bangladesh bust up our rusty old retired marine vessels, recycling their carcasses, eventually to create brand new ships. Let somebody else die from this dangerous and polluting stuff instead of us!

This morning, when I arrived at my office and the fluorescent lights flickered alive, I realized with a start that the “not my trash” anthem had taken a shocking and unwelcome further advance—it had entered the bowels of my own office.

There before me—in my own circular trashcan—lay the hideous vulgarity of Not-My-Trash! At first, all I could feel was the obscene sense of having been personally violated by an unapproved discard. What could it be? Loathsome, unidentifiable green scum from an ancient lunch bag discard? The disposed carcass of a squashed cockroach? Plasticized remains of melted and reconstituted petrified Jujube candies?

I moved closer to my trashcan, squinting through half-closed eyes to dilute the grisly vision of what illegal trash dumping I would identify.

And—there it was—something I did not expect. A handsome Starbuck cup with striking green logo, barely used, stared back at me from the bottom of the trashcan. It was a high-class discard, having only recently treated its former owner to a five-dollar-and-change extravagance on the way to work. Inwardly, I writhed in embarrassment. It was a good and honorable discard; I wondered if I could provide the same sense of joy to someone today, a joy that this disposable cup of java had already contributed.

It was time, too, for my hallmate to learn the lesson that I had just learned—that all trash that’s not my trash is not bad trash. It, too, used to be somebody’s treasure.

So I did the only reasonable thing. I gingerly picked up the Starbuck’s cup and went to the hallway, checking both ways to be sure no one observed me. Then I carried it across the hall and dropped it into my hallmate’s trashcan.

The Power of a One Dollar Bill

I came across a one dollar bill lying directly in front of me on the sidewalk during my daily walk. It fluttered provocatively, like a butterfly during mating season, seducing me to stuff it into my pocket before the former owner noticed its absence.

As I weighed my decision whether to pick it up, I pondered just how much this single dollar bill was really worth. Was the dollar’s loser laying a trap for me, tempting me to steal his greenback? Was I being secretly filmed for the inaugural television episode of “True Mysteries: Who Would Steal a One Dollar Bill”?

So what is the significance of a mere one dollar bill?

Some months ago (my blog dated September 17, 2010), I reported that I had testified on behalf of a two-strike offender, on trial for committing his “third strike” offense, which carried with it a possible life sentence. At 40 years old, some would argue that he should have known better than to steal a backpack from a 99 Cent store, and when confronted, assault the security guard with a substance from a spray can in his pocket. That $1 backpack theft earned him a 30-year sentence, without the possibility of parole. A single one dollar bill could have bought him 30 years of his life.

If I were still a child growing up in Germany, the country where gummy bears originated, the German equivalent of a $1 bill would buy me precisely 400 of these miraculously scrumptious gastronomical delights. The mere thought of these treats would start my salivary glands a-tingling, prompting me to jump onto my three-speed bicycle and sprint to the next village, where the matron tending the store (she knew me well) would dutifully count out: “Eins, zwei, drei, vier…” all the way to 400, while I watched, to be sure she didn’t cheat me out of even one tiny fructose delicacy.

If I had invested a single $1 bill each day for four decades at 7% compound interest, I would have created wealth of more than $80,000 for myself, a gain of $65,500 in interest alone. Too bad I didn’t manage to do that. Alas! My retirement plans are still in tatters.

I recall the $20 bill I came across nearly two years ago, within a few blocks of here. Now that was a find—a miracle!

But what to do with this solitary $1 bill? How could I best honor this unexpected $1 windfall from an unknown donor?

Over the years, inflation alone has rendered it nearly worthless. Or has it? I considered my remaining choices. I could—

–search for the owner, but that would be in vain, I surmised; don’t be ridiculous.

–give it to a needy person, but it likely would be spent on booze. Nah, not on my watch!

–give it to charity. Get real! Their administrative costs would eat up all but a few pennies.

Only one option remained that might revive the value of my anemic dollar bill. With bill in hand, I quickly covered the several blocks to my destination, strode into the establishment, plopped down my $1 bill on the counter, and confidently ordered, “One Mega-Millions lottery ticket, please!”

The Worst Seat on the Train

(Not to be confused with the previous blog, “The Best Seat in the House”.)

I eased myself into the train seat, which I carefully selected to reduce the likelihood that other passenger legs might intersect mine. Personal space is everything on the train.

Next to me sat a woman. The seat across from us held a number of her bags and traveling cases. I figured no one would be sitting there unless she moved all of her stuff. The woman suggested I put my backpack next to hers on the seats.

I considered her suggestion briefly, but I declined. Instead, I slid my backpack beneath my own seat. I avoid putting baggage on a seat intended for passengers, even though the woman’s baggage occupying the seat made it unlikely that another passenger would alight there.

In this instance, it may have been the wrong decision. My seat partner woman opened her cell phone and poked its numbers. She leaned into it, speaking just loudly enough for me to hear her conversation as she uncoiled her wrath.

“What’s wrong with people? This guy next to me put his stuff under his seat! Under his seat! Can you believe that? And I told him to put it next to my things on the seat! What’s wrong with people like that? Are they stubborn, just plain stupid, or what?

“I think he’s stupid! Who would do something like that, when I told him to put his backpack on the seat across from us! Maybe he can’t hear! No, he can hear me! I think he’s stubborn! Really stupid and stubborn! Yeah, that’s it! Stupid! Stubborn!”

The rant with her invisible partner continued for several minutes as I considered how to put myself out of my misery. I couldn’t possibly sit next to this creature for the next half hour.

She continued her rave. “Some people sleep! I don’t sleep! I hibernate a bit, but I don’t sleep! I’m always ‘on’! Not like this guy next to me! He must be asleep all the time! Can’t even put his bags on the seat! What in the world is wrong with people like that?”

I would have to somehow move—and soon—without incurring her wrath, so I hatched a scheme. As the train approached the next station, I pretended it was my stop, un-trundling my backpack from beneath my seat. I lazily stood up from my seat, as though it were a burden to have to get off, and ambled down the stairway. As the train disgorged its passengers, I beat a quick retreat down the length of the car, then another car, and another, never stopping or looking back until I had put several hundred passengers between my ranting former seatmate and me.

Rant on, she may, but I didn’t have to hear it.

Lesson learned—sharing cramped leg space with others is accomplished by adjusting the knees. There is no adjustment possible for vitriol and venom; they require surgery from deep within.

I’ll take the knees, please.

The Inclusive “We,” Part 3

When “We” Becomes “You”

– “I, struggling and feeble, floated, detached, along with other river-traveling rubber ducks.”

He is a well-know motivational speaker with insights that chip away at my preconceptions in just the right places. Most of us recognize a high-quality speech when we hear it:

– Excellent, stimulating content.

– Well-selected illustrations.

– Appropriate tone and delivery style.

– Well-paced presentation.

– Ahh, not too longwinded! (Research says that most of us can pay good attention for only about twenty minutes. I think I max out at fifteen.)

But just why was I having such a hard time listening to his discourse? Why was this battle of resistance within me? Well…he seemed aloof, above it all, having conquered his own shortcomings and now obtrusively barreling in on mine.

What could be the matter with me?

As he spoke, I started identifying categories of words, and that’s when I realized what was going on.

He shoveled out barrels of certain pronouns in his homily. I tripped over the quantity of them and quickly lost count. By the end, I drowned in the pronouns “I” and “You,” which separated him from me. He seemed to have “arrived” by constantly referring to his audience as “you.” He seemed above the fray.

Other pronouns received nary a mention. Scarce as gold veins in a mine, I was at a loss to find any of them. Not once did he mention the inclusive pronoun “we,” which would have indicated we were on this life journey together.

Noticing the imbalance was unavoidable.

I never heard him once utter the inclusive pronoun “We,” which would have linked our successes and struggles together as people with common challenges. Instead, my life (“You”) was juxtaposed against his (“I”).

It appeared that he had successfully run the rapids, dodging life’s obstacles, now a river’s length between us; it seemed that he, successful in all aspects of his life, had crossed the currents without me, while I, struggling and feeble, floated, detached, along with other river-traveling rubber ducks (“We”), still weighted down by our shortcomings. His success and his advice was unapproachable.

Unlike those in my previous two posts, he was not “We”-centered. He did not appear to join with us to help meet our common needs. The well-known motivational speaker did not include us as part of his family. He was exclusively “Me”-centered, and that made all the difference.

The Inclusive “We,” Part 2

Morro Bay can be a tough spot to find reasonably-priced, comfortable, cozy, breakfast restaurants. Geared to tourists, many eateries feel like a cold gastronomical production line. Then we found The Coffee Pot. It faces opposite an ocean view; diners require the capacity to enjoy a good view of the parking lot.

Upon our second visit, the place was packed, and we understood why. Our first visit was punctuated with overhearing pleasant conversations and the enjoyable care of an industrious, agreeable staff. This time, we joined others who waited on sunny benches outside until tables became available.

Within moments, the owner himself came out with a steaming pot of coffee, sweetener and creamer, and cups enough for all of us. He shared a magical smile as he stooped to offer us refreshments and to apologize for the delay. After we were seated within the restaurant, he flitted from table to table, touching regular customers on the shoulder as he greeted them, sitting and chatting with an elderly couple near us for a long while. Then he stooped to gather spilled items beneath a table, near the waitress’s feet—never reproaching the server.

I observed his winning ways during our entire meal, and as we departed, I thanked him for being an unusually hospitable host and an outstanding example to us all.

“I don’t do this for the money,” he explained. “I do this because I love what I do.”

He was not “Me”-centered. Instead, he wanted to help meet our needs. The owner of the Coffee Pot Restaurant included us as part of his family. He was inclusively “We”-centered, and that made all the difference.

The Inclusive “We,” Part 1

Tootling along a country road near Paso Robles last week, my wife alerted me to a sign for the Kenneth Volk winery. Now we know that winery, one of our favorites, and the tasting room, are in Santa Maria, not Paso Robles. We stopped to investigate and discovered that this weekend was the grand opening of this brand new location’s tasting room. Once inside, we began a tasting, and shortly thereafter, the dirty worker near us went to the back room. We asked about this new venue, and our server replied, “Why don’t you ask Kenneth Volk himself? I’ll get him.” Out from the back room came the same dirty, disheveled “worker” who had just been with us, his hands soiled from planting tomatoes. He apologized. “Hi, I’m Kenneth Volk,” he announced. We were astonished. THE Kenneth Volk, the owner of the winery, then spent the next half hour with us, pouring wines and explaining the subtleties of the Art of the Grape. When we asked for a picture with him, he insisted we take two—one in the shade and one in the sunlight.

So why did Kenneth Volk make such a deep impression on us? In his humility, he did not question our credentials. He didn’t ask if we were Kenneth Volk club members. He didn’t rush away to other chores, though his new establishment’s grand opening would be the next day. He didn’t apologize for his working-class appearance.

He was not “Me”-centered. Instead, he wanted to help meet our needs. Kenneth Volk included us as part of his family. He was inclusively “We”-centered, and that made all the difference.