Craig’s Lesson
MOST YOUNG PEOPLE I KNOW — and many who are older — live in a quiet crisis of identity about their place in the world. Some, especially young women, spend their lives submerging their interests into the interests of others until they are not sure whether they have any identity at all. Others, very often young men, try desperately to impress others by parading their accomplishments and sense of selfimportance in an attempt to make themselves seem somehow whole and finished. Still others of both sexes spend their time passing a brittle judgment on others they perceive as different or lesser than they are in an attempt to establish their own identity at the expense of others. At the heart of each is the fear that someone else might pass judgment on who they are, and that they will be unmasked or found out for the uncertainty that is at their core. When I was younger I was as plagued with this fear as anyone else. Often I dared not act for fear of someone judging me. Other times I forced myself into the center of discussions in a pitiful attempt to make sure I was recognized for everything I thought or did. I excluded others; I demeaned others; I pointed out their weaknesses and inconsistencies as a way of raising myself by lowering those around me. Sometimes I was aware of it; other times I was not. It took a chance comment by a friend of mine, long after I had reached adulthood, before I could begin to lift myself out of the uncertainty that surrounded my sense of self. Craig was a close friend of mine. He was one of those people who brought energy and life into any room he entered. He had an uncanny ability to focus his entire attention on you while you were talking, so you suddenly felt more important and more responsible than you had before he started listening. He made you better by being around him. People loved him. He and I went to graduate school together. We had a lot in common. We both were having women troubles. We both were seekers. We both were perhaps too aware of our own foibles for our own good. But he lived in the sunlight of the spirit while I lived under a full moon. We were like mirrors to each other, revealing dimensions of our beings that otherwise we never would have seen. One sunny autumn day we were sitting in our study area, half-talking and half-working on some now-forgotten projects for our graduate degrees. I was staring out the window when I noticed one of my professors crossing the parking lot. He had been away all summer, and we had not parted on good terms. I had taken great offense at some suggestion he had made, and had in turn given great offense in my answer. We had not seen each other since that day.
“Damn it,” I said to Craig. “I don’t want to see him.” “Why not?” Craig asked. I explained what had happened the previous spring. “We left on bad terms,” I said. “Besides, the guy just doesn’t like me.” Craig walked over and looked down at the passing figure. “I think you’ve got it wrong,” he said. “You’re the one who’s turning away, and you’re just doing that because you’re afraid. He probably thinks you don’t like him, so he’s not acting warm toward you. People are like that. They like people who like them. If you show him you’re interested in him, he’ll be interested in you. Go down and talk to him.” Craig’s words smarted. I walked tentatively down the stairs into the parking lot. I mustered my best smile and warmest feelings, and greeted my professor and asked how his summer had been. He looked at me, genuinely surprised at my warmth, and put his arm over my shoulder. We walked off talking. Out of the corner of my eye I could see Craig at the window, smiling. It was so simple, yet I had never seen it. I was approaching all my encounters with a fear that others were judging me when, in fact, they were afraid I was judging them. We were all living in fear of being judged by the other, while the empty space between us was waiting to be filled by a simple gesture of honest caring. “People like people who like them.” Those words allowed me to see the world through new eyes. Instead of seeing judgment in the eyes of others, I saw need. Not deep yawning need, but the simple human need to be noticed and cared about. I began to realize that most people were not waiting to judge the adequacy of my actions; they were waiting for the chance to share something about themselves.
Craig knew this. He basked in people as if basking in sunlight. Their lives warmed him and they loved sharing themselves with him. That was what made him so special. From that day forward I turned my life around. It was not easy. I still spent too much time fearing the judgment of others. And I still got hurt when arrogant people took advantage of my openness and used it either to laugh at me or to demean me. But I found that by taking the chance and liking other people, the world opened up before me. I discovered a world of people I never would have known had I kept only to my own interests. Car mechanics, cashiers, crazy people, thieves — all had their stories to tell. The wealthy, the poor, the powerful, and the lonely — all were as full of dreams and doubts as I was. Farmers talked to me about tractors, scientists spoke to me about atoms. I learned what it is like to grow up on the Australian coast, and I learned how it feels to pack boxes all day long. One time on a train through Canada, I began talking to a man everyone was avoiding because he was weaving and slurring his speech as if he was drunk. It turned out that he was recovering from a stroke. He had been an engineer on the same line we were riding, and we talked long into the night while he regaled me with the history beneath every mile of track: Pile O’ Bones Creek, named for the thousands of buffalo skeletons left there by Indian hunters; the legend of Big Jack, a Swedish track-layer who could lift 500-pound steel rails; a conductor named McDonald who kept a rabbit as his traveling companion. When we parted, he said, “Thanks for talking to me. Most people wouldn’t bother.” He didn’t have to thank me. The pleasure had been all mine. On a noisy street corner in Oakland, California, a family who stopped me for directions turned out to be from Australia’s isolated northwest coast. I asked them about their life back home. Soon, over coffee, they regaled me with stories of huge saltwater crocodiles “with backs as wide as car hoods” near their home. Each encounter became an adventure, each person a lesson in life. The wealthy, the poor, the powerful and the lonely, all were as full of dreams and doubts as I. And each had a unique story to tell, if only I had the ears to listen. An old, stubble-bearded hobo told me how he’d fed his family during the Depression by firing his shotgun into a pond and gathering up the stunned fish that floated to the surface. A traffic patrolman confided how he’d learned his hand gestures by watching bullfighters and symphony conductors. And a young beautician shared the joy of watching residents in a nursing home smile after receiving a new hairstyle. How often something like this is waiting to happen. How often people sit in their silence, longing for a chance to tell their stories. The girl who everyone thinks is ugly, the boy with the odd clothes or the strange manner — those people have stories to tell, as surely as the most popular, most successful, most attractive people do. As surely as you do. And like you, they dream that someone is willing to hear. If you are the one who reaches out, if you are the one who dares to like other people, the walls around you will fall away. Those whose attention you crave will turn toward you because you are turning your attention to them. Those who are alone or insecure will value you for having taken a chance to hear their stories. You will find yourself more valued and respected than you ever could be by parading your accomplishments and sense of importance before other people, because you will have given other people a chance to shine. And far from being lost in their shadows, you will be reflected in the light of their happiness and increased sense of selfworth. That is what Craig knew. It was the reason he filled every room with warmth and energy. He brought people alive because he cared about them more than he cared about their opinions of him. He took a chance and liked people without first asking if they liked him or if they were worthy of being liked. He generated the good feeling that filled the space that separates people. Being a person like Craig takes courage. People will accuse you of all sorts of manipulations and false motivations. They will question your associations and take advantage of your openness. But nothing they can do or say will take away the sense of adventure that comes from enlarging your interest in the people and life around you. No accusations they can make will take away the security that comes from knowing that your life is made richer by every person you meet. Take a chance. Like people first, ask questions later. See if it doesn’t open the world to you in a new way. See if the light you shine on others isn’t reflected back on you a hundredfold.
MOST YOUNG PEOPLE I KNOW — and many who are older — live in a quiet crisis of identity about their place in the world. Some, especially young women, spend their lives submerging their interests into the interests of others until they are not sure whether they have any identity at all. Others, very often young men, try desperately to impress others by parading their accomplishments and sense of selfimportance in an attempt to make themselves seem somehow whole and finished. Still others of both sexes spend their time passing a brittle judgment on others they perceive as different or lesser than they are in an attempt to establish their own identity at the expense of others. At the heart of each is the fear that someone else might pass judgment on who they are, and that they will be unmasked or found out for the uncertainty that is at their core. When I was younger I was as plagued with this fear as anyone else. Often I dared not act for fear of someone judging me. Other times I forced myself into the center of discussions in a pitiful attempt to make sure I was recognized for everything I thought or did. I excluded others; I demeaned others; I pointed out their weaknesses and inconsistencies as a way of raising myself by lowering those around me. Sometimes I was aware of it; other times I was not. It took a chance comment by a friend of mine, long after I had reached adulthood, before I could begin to lift myself out of the uncertainty that surrounded my sense of self. Craig was a close friend of mine. He was one of those people who brought energy and life into any room he entered. He had an uncanny ability to focus his entire attention on you while you were talking, so you suddenly felt more important and more responsible than you had before he started listening. He made you better by being around him. People loved him. He and I went to graduate school together. We had a lot in common. We both were having women troubles. We both were seekers. We both were perhaps too aware of our own foibles for our own good. But he lived in the sunlight of the spirit while I lived under a full moon. We were like mirrors to each other, revealing dimensions of our beings that otherwise we never would have seen. One sunny autumn day we were sitting in our study area, half-talking and half-working on some now-forgotten projects for our graduate degrees. I was staring out the window when I noticed one of my professors crossing the parking lot. He had been away all summer, and we had not parted on good terms. I had taken great offense at some suggestion he had made, and had in turn given great offense in my answer. We had not seen each other since that day.
“Damn it,” I said to Craig. “I don’t want to see him.” “Why not?” Craig asked. I explained what had happened the previous spring. “We left on bad terms,” I said. “Besides, the guy just doesn’t like me.” Craig walked over and looked down at the passing figure. “I think you’ve got it wrong,” he said. “You’re the one who’s turning away, and you’re just doing that because you’re afraid. He probably thinks you don’t like him, so he’s not acting warm toward you. People are like that. They like people who like them. If you show him you’re interested in him, he’ll be interested in you. Go down and talk to him.” Craig’s words smarted. I walked tentatively down the stairs into the parking lot. I mustered my best smile and warmest feelings, and greeted my professor and asked how his summer had been. He looked at me, genuinely surprised at my warmth, and put his arm over my shoulder. We walked off talking. Out of the corner of my eye I could see Craig at the window, smiling. It was so simple, yet I had never seen it. I was approaching all my encounters with a fear that others were judging me when, in fact, they were afraid I was judging them. We were all living in fear of being judged by the other, while the empty space between us was waiting to be filled by a simple gesture of honest caring. “People like people who like them.” Those words allowed me to see the world through new eyes. Instead of seeing judgment in the eyes of others, I saw need. Not deep yawning need, but the simple human need to be noticed and cared about. I began to realize that most people were not waiting to judge the adequacy of my actions; they were waiting for the chance to share something about themselves.
Craig knew this. He basked in people as if basking in sunlight. Their lives warmed him and they loved sharing themselves with him. That was what made him so special. From that day forward I turned my life around. It was not easy. I still spent too much time fearing the judgment of others. And I still got hurt when arrogant people took advantage of my openness and used it either to laugh at me or to demean me. But I found that by taking the chance and liking other people, the world opened up before me. I discovered a world of people I never would have known had I kept only to my own interests. Car mechanics, cashiers, crazy people, thieves — all had their stories to tell. The wealthy, the poor, the powerful, and the lonely — all were as full of dreams and doubts as I was. Farmers talked to me about tractors, scientists spoke to me about atoms. I learned what it is like to grow up on the Australian coast, and I learned how it feels to pack boxes all day long. One time on a train through Canada, I began talking to a man everyone was avoiding because he was weaving and slurring his speech as if he was drunk. It turned out that he was recovering from a stroke. He had been an engineer on the same line we were riding, and we talked long into the night while he regaled me with the history beneath every mile of track: Pile O’ Bones Creek, named for the thousands of buffalo skeletons left there by Indian hunters; the legend of Big Jack, a Swedish track-layer who could lift 500-pound steel rails; a conductor named McDonald who kept a rabbit as his traveling companion. When we parted, he said, “Thanks for talking to me. Most people wouldn’t bother.” He didn’t have to thank me. The pleasure had been all mine. On a noisy street corner in Oakland, California, a family who stopped me for directions turned out to be from Australia’s isolated northwest coast. I asked them about their life back home. Soon, over coffee, they regaled me with stories of huge saltwater crocodiles “with backs as wide as car hoods” near their home. Each encounter became an adventure, each person a lesson in life. The wealthy, the poor, the powerful and the lonely, all were as full of dreams and doubts as I. And each had a unique story to tell, if only I had the ears to listen. An old, stubble-bearded hobo told me how he’d fed his family during the Depression by firing his shotgun into a pond and gathering up the stunned fish that floated to the surface. A traffic patrolman confided how he’d learned his hand gestures by watching bullfighters and symphony conductors. And a young beautician shared the joy of watching residents in a nursing home smile after receiving a new hairstyle. How often something like this is waiting to happen. How often people sit in their silence, longing for a chance to tell their stories. The girl who everyone thinks is ugly, the boy with the odd clothes or the strange manner — those people have stories to tell, as surely as the most popular, most successful, most attractive people do. As surely as you do. And like you, they dream that someone is willing to hear. If you are the one who reaches out, if you are the one who dares to like other people, the walls around you will fall away. Those whose attention you crave will turn toward you because you are turning your attention to them. Those who are alone or insecure will value you for having taken a chance to hear their stories. You will find yourself more valued and respected than you ever could be by parading your accomplishments and sense of importance before other people, because you will have given other people a chance to shine. And far from being lost in their shadows, you will be reflected in the light of their happiness and increased sense of selfworth. That is what Craig knew. It was the reason he filled every room with warmth and energy. He brought people alive because he cared about them more than he cared about their opinions of him. He took a chance and liked people without first asking if they liked him or if they were worthy of being liked. He generated the good feeling that filled the space that separates people. Being a person like Craig takes courage. People will accuse you of all sorts of manipulations and false motivations. They will question your associations and take advantage of your openness. But nothing they can do or say will take away the sense of adventure that comes from enlarging your interest in the people and life around you. No accusations they can make will take away the security that comes from knowing that your life is made richer by every person you meet. Take a chance. Like people first, ask questions later. See if it doesn’t open the world to you in a new way. See if the light you shine on others isn’t reflected back on you a hundredfold.
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