#84 - Miss Manners vs. the .45

Miss Manners vs. the .45

3/16/06 (#84)

I had planned to begin this column with the chronicle of an encounter in the park last week with an asshole dog walker, one of those unexpected experiences that manages to ruin not only the moment, not only the day, but the dog walking mood for days to come. But while I could semantically slay that self-satisfied prick for a full page and still not capture the full vitriolic essence of my opinion of him, I have come to realize that the facts of the incident are as simple as this: he was either an asshole, or he was in a bad mood and felt like being an asshole, and I happened to see him. End of story.

Since then, I have been thinking about the resonance of negative experiences. Am I the only person who dwells on such things, or do most people shrug off the uncomfortable residue of such encounters? Did I take personally something that had nothing to do with me? (Had I been driving and an erratic driver swerved and hit my car, I would not take it personally; yet in person, the voices burned to memory, it's more difficult to cleanse the moment from the psyche.) Negative encounters have a frustrating shelf life, offering a variety of facets upon which to dwell: reliving the experience; rethinking what was said and/or could have been said; examining how the negativity might have avoided or better handled it. In my case, I cover every aspect with tiresome thoroughness.

Negativity is a powerful force. There's a scene from the HBO series Epitafios* that I found profoundly insightful: one of the main characters, a police woman who carries her sanity like a tired waitress hefts a precariously tall stack of mismatched porcelain plates, needed information about a most despicable killer; the lackey office clerk who possessed that information refused to divulge the details. Protocol, he insisted. It's policy. He was sorry, but there was nothing he could do. She flashed the slightest trace of a beleaguered smile and emphatically moaned, "I feel helpless against your negativity."

In the next scene, with the encouragement of a handgun depressing the flesh of his left temple, a deal was brokered, but all I could think about was the clarity of articulation she gave to that sensation. "I feel helpless against your negativity."

We have all been helpless against negativity. Be it burned out postal clerk or a return-counter minimum wager or some chump walking his dog, we have all come face to face with a confrontation that needn't have been as difficult as it was. (Though most of us didn't have a .45 to help us work through these issues.) Negativity is a psychic cloud, its residue settling on every aspect of our day, and worst of all, once spawned, it reproduces effortlessly: the energy generated from those confrontations resonates, affecting those around us at the time of the event, traveling with us to influence our next encounter, lingering in our souls to bloom again when we recount the incident to friends or spouses. (And yet, to talk about it seems to be the only effective means of exorcism.)

Negativity is primarily a manifestation of selfishness. (Conversely, positivity is a manifestation of generosity.) The essence of any negative encounter is usually a petulant strain of righteousness---remember the adage, "It's not whether you win or lose, it's how you play the game"? Negativity is the polar opposite---"It's not how you play the game, it's whether you win or lose."

But unlike the aforementioned policewoman, I can't alleviate my helplessness with a pistol. Nor can I simply hope to avoid negativity, which in this era would be like living in Los Angeles and planning your errands around avoiding smog. Thus, I am compelled to brandish the only weapon I have for such a battle:

Courtesy.

At risk of sounding nostalgic, I wonder why courtesy to strangers has fallen into such disuse: Perhaps it is like a Native American language, lost as each generation uses it less and less---an exponential demise, as the less they are used, the less there is a need for them in return; perhaps manners have come to be confused as a weakness---as a nation, we promote winning, being the best, being first, so if there's a four-way stop and the car with the right of way doesn't immediately accelerate, we feel justified in going out of turn (it's their fault for not being fast enough); Perhaps it's simply a matter of busy-ness---we all have so much to do, and shaving time from a task is a worthwhile trade for brusqueness. (Ironic that we might attempt to save seconds by ignoring the opportunity for a positive gesture, yet we waste so many hours in front of the TV, waiting in traffic, recreational surfing on the Internet, et al.) Whatever the cause, I hope to participate in the reversal of the trend.

Simple example: I held the door today for an older gentleman at Barnes and Noble. There was no obligation for me to hold it, as he was far enough back that it wouldn't have been rude to let it swing shut behind me, and he was an able and healthy man who could easily have pushed the door open himself. But even this simple gesture sent positive ripples into the world: Thanking me as he passed, he remarked, "Nowadays, such things might be better called 'uncommon courtesy'.") The degree of change might be too small to measure, but both of our days improved from that very easy effort.

Some readers might be thinking (I hope), "But you've always been courteous." Maybe it's the resonance of my mother, proof that her years of "Be nice" urging were successful. Maybe it's more nature than nurture---kindness and generosity of spirit simply feel better, so I naturally gravitate in those directions. Whatever the case, I am redoubling my efforts to leave an echo of positivity in each place I visit. Not to simply do what I must to be polite, but to do everything I can to be polite.

Ghandi implored us, "Be the change you wish to see in the world." That's my plan---hopefully, proactive positivity will help me to avoid feeling helpless against someone else's negativity.

If not, I'll look for more tips from that policewoman on Epitafios.

©2006 wpreagan

* It is a testimony to the quality of the programming on HBO that my wife and I not only delve headlong into most any new series they offer, but have gone so far as to investigate---and succumb to---a series in Spanish with English subtitles. I am not aware if it's intended for air in Mexico, or if it's aimed at the Latino population in the United States, but this much is certain: No English-speaking television show has ever presented what this show does: It's like the first half-hour of Law and Order meets the last half hour of Silence of the Lambs. Frightening---but riveting.