I saw this phrase almost a year ago on a sticker firmly adhered to the tall gray metal file cabinet in my dentist’s small office space. I don’t know who said it. Google doesn’t seem to know, either.
It stayed with me, one of those maxims that resonated. I want to be kind. I try to be kind. I probably don’t always succeed. Impatience, anger, and frustration sometimes get in my way.
My daughter told me a story of an event she witnessed one winter day when she was working at her first post-college job. It was frigid, snowing, and windy. On a street in midtown Manhattan
Humankind.
My father liked to gamble, primarily on horse races. During his lifetime, my dad did some dumb things with money but he seemed to have his head on straighter than usual when it came to gambling. He appeared not to spend more than he had in hand, and he knew enough to stop when/if he was ahead. One time, he gave his winning ticket, worth over $900, to a young couple with two small kids in a smoky OTB storefront. He perceived from their conversation and actions that they were desperate for money. He watched them for awhile, wishing that they didn’t have their children with them. When his winning race ended, he walked over to the couple and handed the ticket to the young woman. “Cash this in,” he said, “and please take your children home.”
He told me this story long after it happened and just before he passed away. It was in the context of a discussion about gambling and moderation. He commented that he hadn’t wanted to judge them. He didn’t know if they made OTB a habit, whether they had problems with gambling, or what the whole story was. He just perceived that for whatever reason they needed the money more than he did, and he had it to give. So he did. I admit to being surprised that my dad with his narcissistic tendencies had it in him.
Humankind.
I recently had the worst experience with a student in the almost eleven years I’ve been in my position. I didn’t know the student, as I don’t know most of them. I sent that student, a male, aged 60, instructions to contact a particular agency for an interview for his internship. A couple day’s later, I received a copy of an email he sent to the agency director requesting the interview. Five boundary-busting, gut-spilling paragraphs later, to say I was upset is a gigantic understatement. I immediately contacted the director who was grateful. “Inappropriate. Not suitable. No thank-you.”
This is a student who should know better. With two other Master’s degrees in the helping professions, boundaries should not be news to him. I wrote to him and suggested that it would have been better, if he had personal issues that might interfere with his ability to function in the setting, for him to tell me about them. Given his circumstances, I would have moved immediately to find another placement. However, giving so much personal information in a first contact to an agency director was inappropriate.
The next morning, I came in to find a scathing message from him. This man told me that I should consider him a peer, not just another student, that I was dictatorial, unprofessional, lacking in humanism, and that while perhaps I couldn’t appreciate an honest and open approach, maybe the agency director was able to do so. [Wait, there’s more.] Further, he claimed, there are more self-actualized ways to administer a department than I do AND he does not intend to change his “professional” approach. He will continue to set the parameters for any interview he has.
If my jaw could have dropped any farther, it would have disconnected from my cheeks. Did I respond? I did not. Yes, I was livid. But this man was out for blood and the response that I was sorely tempted to hurl in his direction would have resulted in more venom. After days of consultation with colleagues, we decided he would be called in and (hopefully) guided to see the error of his ways.
After the meeting, convened by two colleagues, I was eager to hear what had transpired. Although it took some time, they reported that he’d “come around” at least a little bit. I rather doubt that there’s been any major character transformation; I just don’t want him to mess up another prospective internship and I don’t want any more personal attacks. I admit I’m still angry.
During the meeting, my colleagues learned some things about this man. That he’s broke. That he can’t find a job. That he’s lost all his friends because of his financial situation. [Well, I’d argue the reasoning on that one given the length and sharpness of his claws.] That some days he has to choose between eating and buying a metro card for transportation to school. That he could just curl up and cry.
There went my heart.
There have been times in my life when I’ve put cash in an envelope and sent it off to someone I knew who needed the money. No return address. Just cash wrapped for camouflage and placed in a security envelope, mailed from a post office that is not my own.
Old (I’d better be careful about calling 60 “old”, since I’m not far from there myself) and hungry. It’s a combination I find intolerable.
My heart is telling me to do things. Send a metro card, it says. Send some cash for food. Nobody should have to choose between food and other necessities. My heart is remembering – humankind – be both.
My brain is wondering – neurotic reaction formation? Rescue fantasies? At best, a metro card and some cash for food are stop-gap measures. I’m not planning an adoption.
Still,
Old. Hungry.
Humankind.
