I’ve taken time away from posting to work on some projects that have been calling for a while. In the process, I’ve stepped back from all social media—except the ones my wife has to share. The distance has provided enough space to find my place in the back quarter (hopefully) of life, and to see a bigger picture unfolding.
I work as a psychologist, but I feel like a philosopher at heart. I can’t help it, and I didn’t choose to be either. And I didn’t randomly end up on a path not of my making. “Vocation” intimates a calling, and I just listened and followed—not without resistance, and sometimes kicking and screaming because of the large helping of growing up required. And growing up is required of all of us.
I always wondered how long I would write about fatherhood. Truly, I didn’t even know why I started but I can see it now. Because everyone has a mother—and a father. The roles represent the core of who we are and where we came from. They require the most important human qualities because we are given the precious responsibility of supporting and challenging the next generation to become who they are meant to be. Not molding them, as some say, but helping them to grow while they shed and sculpt and reveal their nature. It’s a beautiful process of values and principles—and we get to participate.
Little by little we have altered this developmental process, so much so most won’t remember when the change began. The change, in my view, underlies many of the maladies we face as individuals and as a society.
Little by little we’ve become more disconnected, anonymous, and, dare I say, irresponsible. I’m not talking about the growing pains we experience in every phase of life. Little by little we’ve given away our power to “become,” evident in ever-increasing materialistic pursuits and a willingness to let the virtual world and automation replace someone with a pulse.
An anecdote describes this on a small scale. Recently, I went to a local fast-food establishment that I have visited occasionally for 14 years. Hold on! They’re a mile away and have pretty good coffee. Anyway, still no one knows me, but I know their faces—at least until they find a new job.
On this day I mistakenly decided on the drive-thru. I ordered two items, and the total was less than five bucks. I get to the window, and the young lady asks for eight dollars and change as I hand her my credit card (another mistake as I usually pay cash). I told her that wasn’t my order and politely filled her in. My guess is she was new since I hadn’t seen her before and the manager (whom I recognized but she did not recognize me) hovered nearby.
The young lady had already “tapped” my chipped card and proceeded to hand over my original order. Again, I asked about the price. With my card in her hand, she turned to the manager for a private conversation and they both laughed. She handed me my card and walked away from the window—or should I say, strutting like an influencer.
You guessed it. The guy behind me got his order for half-price—on me, though I didn’t know this until I checked my transactions online when I got home.
What would you do?
Well, I asked myself that question and the first answer was to let it slide and it wasn’t worth the time. And if you look at it from dollars and cents it really wasn’t. But I couldn’t let it go.
So, I went on the customer feedback site and took a few tries since it kept telling me I was making errors but I couldn’t find any. And you only get a limited amount of “characters.” About half an hour later I had told (“submitted”) my story.
What followed were carefully written form letters, approved by the legal department, addressing my complaint without admitting culpability. In the “I’m sorry” world of today that’s considered an apology. But “I’m sorry” rarely makes amends. So, I don’t leave you hanging, they offered coupons for my less-than-perfect experience—only if I gave them my home address.
Seems innocent, right? Then I considered what I would have experienced as a teen, after treating a customer that way and not rectifying the bill. “Oh, but that was so long ago,” you might say. Long ago, yes, but I grew up on a city street with more families on that one “block” than four modern subdivisions.
And everyone knew whose son I was.
Later, I asked my wife if she thought our boys knew what would happen if we got wind of an incident like this. She agreed they would, and that making amends would be a priority. If possible, they’d have to look the individual in the eye, apologize, give up their own money, and arrange to make amends. Something requiring effort, something that could show they meant it—even if it took years to see the whole picture, to get the lesson, and to understand the value.
Little by little we’ve become less human. We scroll away our genius and wonder why we feel emptiness, and why it’s hard to sit still, be still, and be alone without a phone. It’s easy to blow this off and say, “It doesn’t matter. It’s a small thing. Don’t sweat the small stuff…” Outwardly, maybe. But our intentions are known from our actions.
A boss I had long ago said to me, “If you’re taking from one place, you’re probably okay with taking from somewhere else… If you need something, just ask.” This is the same boss who asked a raucous table to leave his restaurant because they were drunk and giving me a hard time. As the party (literally) collected themselves for the exit, they threw money on the table. My boss promptly gave it back. “I don’t want your money,” he told them.
I was 16…
Imagine the “reviews” if such a thing existed back then. But, I can tell you everyone else in the restaurant that night felt better about coming back…
Little by little we head in some direction. Sometimes we’re off by a few degrees and end up somewhere we don’t want to be, some place we don’t recognize. Or become a collective we’d rather not recognize. I get it… Rome wasn’t built in a day. But it didn’t fall in a day either.
Photo Credit: Javier Allegue Barros (unsplash.com)
