-->
After a few months and a little travel I am back at least
for a week… My silence however has not
been due to some extended trip or even because of a hectic schedule, in fact, I
usually write a lot more when things are hectic.
For those that have followed my blog for the past several
years, even when it was on the other website, you know that I have a tendency to look
at the world around and draw some sense of meaning from it. Please don’t be disappointed, because in this
entry I am going to shift gears. I’m
going to look inside, I want to share with you the side that nobody knows. I know that we all have that inner monologue,
kind of like a sitcom. That inner voice
that drives us and often expresses in our minds what we would never dare say
out loud. I can talk about that, but I
want to go a step further. Behind that
sarcastic, skeptic, and often critical monologue is something else. It is a side, that even as I write this, I
struggle to grasp. I have learned to
ignore it, to let the monologue drown out this other side.
This year I have made my way around the region. I made a couple of stops in Dubai, a quick
day trip to Bahrain, and a week in India.
In ten more days I’m going to spend a week in Kenya. The idea is to get away from the rush of
daily life and spend a few days on safari in the jungle. As excited as I am about seeing lions,
hippos, monkeys(especially the monkeys), and what ever else might swing out of
the trees, there is something more that I want.
There is this amazing feeling when you step out of an
airport in a country that you’ve never visited.
You are immediately surrounded by the sounds of a different
reality. You hear languages that are
unfamiliar, you see people who dress differently than you are used to and in
that moment you face an enormous decision.
Do I play it safe, take on the normal mannerisms of the American
tourist? For those of you that have
traveled abroad I’m sure you know what I am talking about. It usually looks something like this, and
this is a true to life example…. I had
been in Mumbai for several days. I had
visited an island with a temple and carvings that were almost a thousand years
old. My hotel was directly infront of
the famous Gateway to India and I spent some time at Mani Bhavan, this is where
Gandhi had lived when he was in Mumbai. I had been to the local taverns, not
the tourist traps, the ones that you have to know a little Hindi to order you
Kingfisher and tikka. By no means do I
know Hindi.. I am slowly learning
through Podcasts and friends who speak this beautiful language. On this particular day however I was rushing
to find souvenirs for my coworkers and friends. I was all over the main street
in Colaba. I walked up and down the
streets bargaining with the vendors talking to different people that were
either living there or visiting.
Needless to say the street was very crowded and was a buzz with visitors
from all over the world. I decided to
depart from what had become my daily ritual of tikka at one particular local
restaurant. I decided to eat in a
restaurant on the main street. I am
still adjusting to the categories on some menus as I travel. You often have the options of chicken, beef
or meat. This usually leads me to the
question if it’s not chicken, it’s not beef then what exactly is this
mysterious other meat that has no specific name. I ordered the lunch special and a large
bottle of water. As I was sitting I saw
a group of tourists eating across from me. One man had a shirt that proclaimed
George W. was his president, another had a bright orange hat with a State side
college logo. They were loud and
demanding, calling the waiter over at least a dozen times. They were making jokes about the staff
assuming that no one around could speak English and if they could, would
probably see the humor in what they were saying. The look on the waiters face spoke
volumes. He was tired. I’m sure he had worked extremely hard all day
and now was dealing with the table from a nightmare. I waited tables in college and I know that
feeling all too well… Being a counselor
I did what all counselors would do in this situation (and in most situations),
I sat back and observed. At first I felt
angry. I was angry for the waiter. I saw this kind man respond with amazing patience
and even with a kind smile when complaint after complaint was shouted to
him. I remember dreading these parties
when waited tables and on more than one occasion I had to put on the smile and
wait patiently as people complained about things that I had no control over,
it’s not fun.
After twenty minutes I heard a shout… “Hey!... Hey!... You
American?” It rang out with a deep southern draw. For a moment I thought I was somewhere in
Arkansas or Louisiana..
I told you in the opening I was coming from a different
direction in this entry so here it is.
I’m going to give you the dirt. I’m going to give you every reason to
not read another entry I ever write… I’m going to let you in to the mess that
is me.
I sat, still eating the plate of noodles in front of
me. My head began to rush. I had been so
successful all week, just blending in with the scenery, just being. I had hung out the previous night with a taxi
driver who spoke about as much English as I spoke Hindi. We spoke the common language of beer at a
local tavern. We sat for two hours
playing an app on my Ipad just laughing in those awkward moments when we didn’t
know the right words. I wasn’t
proclaiming some national pride, I was waiving the red white and blue. I just felt comfortable being a guy in a
tavern hanging out with another guy playing ludo and laughing. I wasn’t analyzing nonverbal, my
hypervigilance was at rest. I didn’t
feel a need to compensate with a flag waving session. It was a great moment and I wanted to drink
in every second of it..(pun intended)
Now, sitting in front of a group of people that were doing
the very thing that I had intentionally avoided I was faced with a huge
decision… I wish I could say I had the
perfect answer.. In my mind I looked at the group and my first thought was,
“Bro the election was four years ago move on”.
I sat for what felt like an eternity trying to decided how do I respond
in a way that shows friendliness and yet still offered me the distance to not
be lumped in with these guys. For a moment
I felt like such a mess. These seemed
like nice American people. If I had seen
them at the local watering hole in Florida I’m sure it would have been a
different story. My perception of them
would be completely different. They
probably wouldn’t be in that awkward state of compensating for their insecurity
of being in an environment that felt totally foreign to them. I might have been playing Ludo with one of
them for goodness sake.. Who knows…
The lasting thought, the one that produced action was so off
the wall and out of no where that I just went with it. I realized, they didn’t really know if I was
American that’s why they were asking, and I did spend eight years studying
different languages.. I knew that Koine or Attic Greek wouldn’t do much for me,
plus I wouldn’t even remember where to start, not to mention that they’re both
dead languages.. There was one hope… I
had spent six years studying Spanish!
Spanish… That was it… Now what do I remember from all over those
declensions and conjugations.. Aaaahhhh!!! Of course! Then without thinking the word flowed out in
my best Spanish accent… “Como?” I
crumbled to my pride and went for a language that no one would know. I’m in India, in Mumbai and I’m being yelled
at by a group of Americans… Como? It fit and before I could really process it,
it was out there.
The man looked at me with a puzzled expression. Before he could gain a sense of composure
more Spanish popped out from that vast expanse deep within the recesses of
classes past. Como? Lo siento, no yo hablo un poquito Ingles. How accurate my recitation was I have no
idea. The man’s expression changed from
confusion to disregard. With a brush off
hand movement and a laugh he said nevermind.
Then he went on to tell his companions that you can’t find an American
anywhere in this place.
I reflected on this for the rest of the day. Was I ashamed of my own heritage? I have always been a huge supporter of the
States and was very active in the 2008 campaign. I volunteered hours and hours at the local
campaign headquarters. I felt this deep
sense of guilt. I thought over and over
at how my response to these guys was to intentionally speak yet another foreign
language to these obviously confused visitors.
The more I thought about it though my ideas evolved. I realized that it wasn’t about
nationality. Those were the details that
I noticed directly seated in front of me.
What it came down to was this. To
jump in to that conversation I would have had to step out of my comfort
zone. I would have had to decide to take
a position in a limited public place saying, “yep there with me”. It was at all about nationality. In this sense even in the States I avoid
these compensating advertisements of party pride and allegiance to college
football teams that play for schools that the majority of the fans never
attended. The football thing is it’s own
topic entirely.. I could blog for days about that…
I have dark hair, an olive complexion and Hazel eyes. I look every bit the Mediterranean many do in
this region. I can blend. Just as the guys in the restaurant were
compensating by proclaim their various national allegiances I was doing the
same. I was compensating, not only that
but I went deeper. I am by no means even
fluent in Spanish.
See in the moment I was faced with a huge dilemma. Do I step out of a comfort zone that allows
me to just exist without the stigmas that I fear or do I risk? This is not a question of nationality at all
and as a matter of fact it is a deeper insecurity. It’s about intimacy. I realized that I would rather dive deeper in
to my own camouflage than risk meeting people that exist outside of my comfort
zone. I see it all the time in counseling. We all do this to some degree. It looks different for each person but what
it comes down to is this. I want to have
intimacy but I don’t want to risk. The
truth is that by it’s very nature intimacy is risk at every single level.
I realized that I have had friendships that could have been
full of so much depth and joy but I responded with the emotional equivalent of
Como? Now I’m going to let you into a
little secret about therapists. For
those of you that are therapists I know that this is like a magician that says
look this is how you do that trick, it’s not real magic…lol For those of you that are not therapists you
might already know this. The safest
place to sit in a counselors office is the counselors chair. We are trained to nod, encourage, to even
proclaim the anthem of Jung, Erikson, or for the less vetted therapists Dr.
Phil. We observe, we wait, we long for
our clients to make that connection and to experience the intimacy that they
have long avoided but it doesn’t mean that we are any better at the practice of
the sermon that we preach than anyone else.
So if you attend therapy, know that you are by far the bravest person in
the room.
I have run in packs of therapists that in their free time
stimulate themselves with amazing stories of self-discovery and at times over
compensating non-verbal gestures. These
are our George W. shirts, our college mascot hats and worst of all the
Halloween masks that we often wear through out the year. Please know that I am not saying that all
therapists are fake, or not real people.
Quite the opposite. We have the
training to have the most complex facades.
I can share stories all day, I can emote with the best of them. Why?
Because at the end of the day there is a side of me that very few know,
that aches to be known. All the
training, all the hours in the safe chair in my office they just allow me the
position to appear like I have answers.
In theory and in therapy sure.. We are trained observers but observers
by their nature are great at watching and describing in brilliant detail what
they see. I have come to the conclusion
that when looking for a therapist the vetting process should consist of two
questions.. As much of an antagonist as
I am of CBT the criteria has nothing to do with theoretical orientation. It comes down to two questions.
What is
your façade?
Who knows
the real you?
If the answer is anything other than honest reflection and a
clear answer… Run… No one and I will say
it again no one escapes the façade on some level and if there is no outlet for
the real person behind the therapist then the client becomes the outlet. I have my façade just like everyone else but
over the years I have learned that I have to have an outlet.
Many of you know that I live in Kuwait. I have been here a little over two years my
façade has been tested time and time again.
I have made more than my fair share of weepy phone calls to close
friends. Not with eloquence most of the
times just weeping and venting. My
friends always prove that they love me for the weepy mess. I think that often times they tolerate the
therapist waiting for that moment to see the side that nobody knows.
-JRS
