It had been a very long day. No matter how often I try, getting to DFW from anywhere is easy, but getting from DFW to LBB is impossible. Flights are always overbooked, and American Eagle seems to be doing quite well. So after leaving DCA (Washington Reagan) early on Sunday, I ran to make one, then two, then a third short flight from Dallas to Lubbock. This last one, I was actually booked on and had a seat, so it was delayed, for two hours.
I had heard it before, but kept putting it out of my mind. It was a repetitive yell, almost a bark, sometimes almost a word, like "WHAATTT!" or something similar. I just ignored it. Some crazy, I guess. They come in all places. Who knows? Leave me be. Now, where was I with that FB update?
Then I saw you, across the gate lounge area. You? No, it couldn't be! You are too normal, too regular. What could be wrong with you??? But it was clear. No denying it. There you were. The typical youngish business traveler, with bags in tow, well groomed, in good shape, normal, quiet. Boring. But then, the bark, and again. Nothing for a second. Then again. And again. People glance, then look away. People talk. You stand, courageous. The void around you grows.
I don't know what it is, but I know you are too normal. I somehow gain courage to go up and just stand next to you. Eventually I ask where you are going. "Lubbock. Never been there." Lubbock! Wow! Me too? "What would bring you there?" "Speaking at the Medical School." And I know, but ask anyway. "Why?" "Well, it obvious, isn't it," you retort. "I have Tourette's." I feel very small, and embarrassed. You carry on, about how you aren't bothered, how you have lived with it almost all your life.
I don't push it. I want to know so much. Does it hurt? Can you control it? Does it wear you out? How do you handle the public scenes? How do you live with this???
But you are gracious, and kind, and normal. You are an Assistant Principal at an elementary school. You are married, with two young children. You travel about once a month, presumably to tell your story, but you long to be home with family. You live in the South, and you are a loyal Cardinals fan. You went to a small Midwest college. You hope to teach college someday. You know children, and pressures they face, and you gave me encouragement about my own children, all now grown. You were gracious.
I watched you, I am sad to say, and people around you, all the way to Lubbock. In truth, the goodness of the crowds -- mostly silent, mostly non-confrontive -- was reassuring. No one really knows how to react, or what to say, but no one wants to be rude either. And perhaps I was the problem; perhaps I should have just ignored you, a normal traveller, as we all so often do to one another in these airport worlds. But I wanted to be near you, and to say you are not alone, nor an object of derision or focus. And you were kind, welcoming yet another strange, curious odd one, me. Thank you.
So often we who claim normality assume everyone else is odd or alone or sad. Sometimes we in our own sincerity may legitimately offer comfort. But probably more so, we rush in, perhaps certain that our Messiah role to save and comfort and fix everything will be successful, and all will see our good works and we will be rewarded and honored and praised.
But sometimes, if we are lucky, we meet the gentle and courageous authenticity of others perhaps more often identified or labelled as odd or loud or wierd, or uncontrollable. And, if we are fortunate, we experience a moment of genuine normality, of real life, of tremendous courage, and
Of sheer grace.
Thank you, Mr. Assistant Principal, God Bless You.
I had heard it before, but kept putting it out of my mind. It was a repetitive yell, almost a bark, sometimes almost a word, like "WHAATTT!" or something similar. I just ignored it. Some crazy, I guess. They come in all places. Who knows? Leave me be. Now, where was I with that FB update?
Then I saw you, across the gate lounge area. You? No, it couldn't be! You are too normal, too regular. What could be wrong with you??? But it was clear. No denying it. There you were. The typical youngish business traveler, with bags in tow, well groomed, in good shape, normal, quiet. Boring. But then, the bark, and again. Nothing for a second. Then again. And again. People glance, then look away. People talk. You stand, courageous. The void around you grows.
I don't know what it is, but I know you are too normal. I somehow gain courage to go up and just stand next to you. Eventually I ask where you are going. "Lubbock. Never been there." Lubbock! Wow! Me too? "What would bring you there?" "Speaking at the Medical School." And I know, but ask anyway. "Why?" "Well, it obvious, isn't it," you retort. "I have Tourette's." I feel very small, and embarrassed. You carry on, about how you aren't bothered, how you have lived with it almost all your life.
I don't push it. I want to know so much. Does it hurt? Can you control it? Does it wear you out? How do you handle the public scenes? How do you live with this???
But you are gracious, and kind, and normal. You are an Assistant Principal at an elementary school. You are married, with two young children. You travel about once a month, presumably to tell your story, but you long to be home with family. You live in the South, and you are a loyal Cardinals fan. You went to a small Midwest college. You hope to teach college someday. You know children, and pressures they face, and you gave me encouragement about my own children, all now grown. You were gracious.
I watched you, I am sad to say, and people around you, all the way to Lubbock. In truth, the goodness of the crowds -- mostly silent, mostly non-confrontive -- was reassuring. No one really knows how to react, or what to say, but no one wants to be rude either. And perhaps I was the problem; perhaps I should have just ignored you, a normal traveller, as we all so often do to one another in these airport worlds. But I wanted to be near you, and to say you are not alone, nor an object of derision or focus. And you were kind, welcoming yet another strange, curious odd one, me. Thank you.
So often we who claim normality assume everyone else is odd or alone or sad. Sometimes we in our own sincerity may legitimately offer comfort. But probably more so, we rush in, perhaps certain that our Messiah role to save and comfort and fix everything will be successful, and all will see our good works and we will be rewarded and honored and praised.
But sometimes, if we are lucky, we meet the gentle and courageous authenticity of others perhaps more often identified or labelled as odd or loud or wierd, or uncontrollable. And, if we are fortunate, we experience a moment of genuine normality, of real life, of tremendous courage, and
Of sheer grace.
Thank you, Mr. Assistant Principal, God Bless You.
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