You know how you get a thought stuck in your head? It goes round and round and gets pretty annoying in there. Put it down! Put it down on “paper,” and let it rest. A few days ago, my partner and I went to a remarkably wonderful fiddle concert at Amherst College, a free afternoon concert that was well attended. The music ranged from Irish dancing tunes to goose-bumpy melodic tunes. I was in heaven.
After intermission, I am sitting down and arranging my long down coat (it still being winter in New England). The collar, apparently, was over the back of the chair, not neatly tucked in on my side. An elderly man behind me starts in, without preamble, to yell at me. “How dare you put your coat into my space? Don’t you have any idea what you are doing? How dare you…?” Well, now, can I tell you I was shocked?
The place I go to when attacked, out of the blue, especially by men, or someone who exhibits male-energy (whatever that is), is 10th grade geometry, taught by Fat Harry Johnson, who hated me. I had loved, and excelled, at math until then. That was the end of the math-road for me.
So this old guy is in my face and I, as a middle-aged, reasonably together woman, was not going to show that I was having flashbacks of Fat Harry. I was shaking, but I started back in at him. “You know, sir, if you want something, there are ways to ask for it without attacking.” OK, so I didn’t say this in a calm peace-making manner. He kept at me; I fed it back. It wasn’t pretty. I finally sat down, with my coat on my side of the seat, and said quite rude things to my partner, intending it to be loud enough for him to hear. Then I sat there, trying to control my shaking, listening to the engaging music, and planning my comeback for after the concert. My best one: I feel sorry for you, to have achieved a venerated age, and feel so angry with the world, that you lack a basic understanding of civility.
I didn’t get to say this, not that it was all that profound.
But it has been on my mind… Everyone who knows me knows that I am about connections, good communication, being kind, and above all, perhaps, being respectful. This guy, he wasn’t like me. Coincidentally, I had just started a book by Hendrie Weisinger, whom we happened to meet at this little Thai restaurant in Boston the week before. In his Power of Positive Criticism, he right off talks about the purpose  and value of criticism. Know what you want to get out of it (could you move your coat?) and don’t ever, ever demean anyone. That will not get you what you want, unless you are an asshole, and then I hope I don’t have to interact with you. Dr. Weisinger, aka Hank, was describing something  basic to my philosophy, and especially, to how I raised my kids. If you need to tell someone to do something, or do something differently, be clear about what you want to say, absolutely do not belittle them, and just be kind.  My daughters are amazing, self-assured young women. I hope that my parenting has nurtured them more than squelched them.
Damn it: I still start to shake when I think about that grumpy old man.

You know how you get a thought stuck in your head? It goes round and round and gets pretty annoying in there. Put it down! Put it down on “paper,” and let it rest. A few days ago, my partner and I went to a remarkably wonderful fiddle concert at Amherst College, a free afternoon concert that was well attended. The music ranged from Irish dancing tunes to goose-bumpy melodic tunes. I was in heaven.

After intermission, I am sitting down and arranging my long down coat (it still being winter in New England). The collar, apparently, was over the back of the chair, not neatly tucked in on my side. An elderly man behind me starts in, without preamble, to yell at me. “How dare you put your coat into my space? Don’t you have any idea what you are doing? How dare you…?” Well, now, can I tell you I was shocked?

The place I go to when attacked, out of the blue, especially by men, or someone who exhibits male-energy (whatever that is), is 10th grade geometry, taught by Fat Harry Johnson, who hated me. I had loved, and excelled, at math until then. That was the end of the math-road for me.

So this old guy is in my face and I, as a middle-aged, reasonably together woman, was not going to show that I was having flashbacks of Fat Harry. I was shaking, but I started back in at him. “You know, sir, if you want something, there are ways to ask for it without attacking.” OK, so I didn’t say this in a calm peace-making manner. He kept at me; I fed it back. It wasn’t pretty. I finally sat down, with my coat on my side of the seat, and said quite rude things to my partner, intending it to be loud enough for him to hear. Then I sat there, trying to control my shaking, listening to the engaging music, and planning my comeback for after the concert. My best one: I feel sorry for you, to have achieved a venerated age, and feel so angry with the world, that you lack a basic understanding of civility.

I didn’t get to say this, not that it was all that profound.

But it has been on my mind… Everyone who knows me knows that I am about connections, good communication, being kind, and above all, perhaps, being respectful. This guy, he wasn’t like me. Coincidentally, I had just started a book by Hendrie Weisinger, whom we happened to meet at this little Thai restaurant in Boston the week before. In his Power of Positive Criticism, he right off talks about the purpose  and value of criticism. Know what you want to get out of it (could you move your coat?) and don’t ever, ever demean anyone. That will not get you what you want, unless you are an asshole, and then I hope I don’t have to interact with you. Dr. Weisinger, aka Hank, was describing something  basic to my philosophy, and especially, to how I raised my kids. If you need to tell someone to do something, or do something differently, be clear about what you want to say, absolutely do not belittle them, and just be kind.  My daughters are amazing, self-assured young women. I hope that my parenting has nurtured them more than squelched them.

Damn it: I still start to shake when I think about that grumpy old man.