Ok. Fair warning, as this is still fresh for me. I don’t imagine this post flows right, but here goes:
As a man well into my 50’s, I should not allow myself to feel the same bullying I felt in childhood. I shouldn’t allow the blather of others to live within my soul, my thoughts, to change my outlook, to destroy my peace. But I did. I most certainly did.
Recently, in partnership with another employee, I was given the task of wiring in an actuator control switch. I was looking forward to this task because I have little experience with this type of electronics and wiring, and the person I was to be working with had a lot of experience but his age was making the physical work difficult. A great pairing, I thought.
He ordered the components and designed the support structure while I assembled the structuring and then attempted to follow his written directions on the wiring. I told him I didn’t understand his wiring diagram but I’d do my best and let him know if I had problems. Yep, I had problems.
This older man entered back into the project angry. Ok, he is always angry. But, I called him back into it because I had done the best I could, the very best I could, but I was at a loss. So, I left everything open, labeled, easily changed. His first words were “Why in the hell did you do it like that?”
Ok, I’m new at this. How would you have done it. Grumpily, he tells me. Cool, information! I can use this in the future! Then, he grumpily complains about how I’ve done it again.
And again. And again. And again. And again. He complains about my multimeter, which is owned by the shop, not me, and is the only one I have available. Why did you buy this meter? This is a stupid design. Anyone who uses a meter like this shouldn’t be using a meter. Why did you leave so little wire where this gets connected? (He ordered the wire, and I used every bit of it as best as able). You should have left more. Dammit, this is horrible, why’d you leave this so short? You should have left more….
Outwardly I stood quiet, but, inside sat a little boy who couldn’t hold a flashlight right or grab a 7/16 box end wrench fast enough. I tell you now, when I realized I had put my hands in my pockets I ripped them out so fast I’m surprised I didn’t start a friction fire!
This type of stuff continued, repeatedly continued. I’d done the best I could with what I had available. I’d done the best I could to understand his diagram. I’d done the best I fucking well could!….. and all I could do was hold back the scream that it was all unfair and swallow my own anger as he let his flow. I needed to get this component wired and get this machine working again. I needed his help.
I’m a grown-assed man well into my 50’s, why am I suddenly that little boy again? Why am I so incapable of lifting my head? Why am I so hurt by someone so much smaller than I am? Why did I allow myself to be so abused?
Wiring complete, machine put back together. I trained the operators, watched them operate the machine successfully, then quietly collected my tools and went home. On the way home another driver passed me on the highway as I was changing lanes. He was speeding, nearly hit me – I could have reached out my window and changed his radio station! Then he sped away on the highway, and I was pissed! Finally, I was pissed!! I’d had enough this day and dammit someone was going to pay! I chased that guy for two miles at over 90 miles an hour before I realized that – a: I was never going to catch him in my little car. And, b: I needed to forgive that man or I was going to end up in an accident or jail or both.
Many years ago I stumbled upon a little blog that talked about a lot of stuff. I read his offered story, read his posts, then one day I commented. See, I liked how he signed off on his posts with “hugs”. We became grand friends, this virtual hugger and me, and I learned how incredibly important hugs were to him, and to my surprise, to me. To receive them, and to give.
Of course, I know this is a sad, angry, lonely, pathetic old man. I know this is just how he is, and I’ll never see him different. But. I also “know” he spoke to me that way because I was no good. I “know” I was horrible at my job. I “know” I’m dumb. I “know” I had no business trying to do that wiring job. I “know”… I “know”… Yeah, I “know”.
Hugs.
Randy
Senator George Mitchell
Scottie's Playtime 