On Taking the Higher Road

Face it, some people are downright nasty—taking pleasure in the handicaps and misfortunes of others. We actually have a word in the English lexicon for the concept: the noun schadenfreude [shaa-duhn-froy-duh], meaning “the enjoyment obtained from the mishaps of others.” As you might suspect, it comes from the German language, created by linking two words: schaden (damage, injury, and harm) plus freude (happy).

It's not a particularly uplifting word when you know its meaning and even less pleasant when it’s applied.

But I have a strategy when dealing with schadenfreudes. I take the higher road. Rather than be insulted by a slur, I choose to treat it as if it were a joke—albeit a humorless one. For example, when people poke fun at my conspicuously furless noggin, I often reply with a smile, a swipe over my scalp, and pronounce, “That’s right, I’m just an omelet waiting to happen” or “Yes, but it looks so good when I use Mop and Glo.”

I have a close friend who is five foot six. When someone undermines his stature, he replies with a side-glance, “I may be short, but my brain is still growing.” That’s clever, but there’s a hint of spite in the quip, the subtext being, “Too bad we can’t say the same about you.” I prefer this comeback: “It’s true. I’m always looking upward, which is fine with me; that’s where I get my inspiration.”

But I believe there’s a limit to how forgiving a person should be when it comes to “flaming” schadenfreudes. When the attacks are crushing in abuse, it may be time to move on. Life is too brief and too precious to be wasted on those who are emotionally unfeeling and ethically bereft.

In People of the Lie, the American psychiatrist M. Scott Peck wrote, “When I say that evil has to do with killing, I do not mean to restrict myself to corporeal murder.” I agree. People are endowed with awareness, curiosity, ambition, desires, and expectations. An evil person can destroy those endowments without laying a hand on the victim.

I once proposed a new training program to the executive staff of an international company, a group of fifteen men. At the end of my presentation, the president of the organization said he supported my idea.

Pleased with his endorsement, I turned to him and said, “I think you’re absolutely right.”

The president then glared at me, his eyes without pity, and said, “I don’t give a shit what you think.”

I’m sorry, that’s unacceptable. There’s no humor there, only meanness. Despite his position, I wanted nothing to do with him. I immediately updated my resume, ultimately went into business for myself, and incidentally made three times my old salary.

Some might ask, “Why didn’t you discuss the issue with your boss?” That’s an important question. There’s certainly a time for confrontations. To determine when I recommend asking four questions: How serious is the conflict? How important is the relationship? Does the offender have the maturity to change? What is the risk to my well being if I stay? Ultimately, I decided though the offense was serious, I was not invested in the relationship, and I gravely questioned the depth of his empathy and, consequently, his ability to change. It was better to leave before my well-being was damaged.

I’m conflicted in what I’m about to say because every case is unique—all with interrelated factors to consider. However, in general, if you have a vicious schadenfreude in your life—one who physically or verbally abuses you or even treats you as if you were invisible—don’t stand for it. If the offender is important to you, let him or her know the behavior is unacceptable and will not be tolerated. If a second offense occurs, leave. The devastation inflicted by a mean-spirited person can be lethal—fear and anger gnawing at your soul—and no one merits that.

A mature adult might argue, “Hold on a minute. What if the offender has a damaged spirit? Am I helping him or her by leaving?”

That’s a good question, denoting compassion. However, it’s not the victim’s job to attempt to heal the other while being battered. The offender needs to take responsibility for his or her own psychological and spiritual health. Sticking around can turn one into a codependent enabler, one who rescues the other by encouraging insidious behavior. For the chronic victim, the higher road should be the first road to freedom.

ABOUT THE IMAGE: This photograph was taken from the stage during one of my keynote presentations—one of a multitude of national presentations after leaving my ignoble schadenfreude. On this occasion, I was speaking to the good folks at Youth Villages in Tennessee, whose mission is to heal abused children struggling with emotional and behavioral problems.

On the Power of Bouncing Sideways

I was not a good student in grammar school. My report cards from Emerson Elementary were peppered with only Cs, Ds, and a few Fs. It was my fifth-grade teacher, Miss Byrne, who wrote, “Allen always turns in neat papers. He should spend a bit more time checking them for mistakes such as spelling errors.” That’s like saying, “He’d be a nice boy if he didn’t set ants on fire.”

But I was never bothered by poor grades. I had my eye on becoming the next Jim Brown, the greatest football player of all time.

It was a silly notion. As a seventh-grader, I was five-foot even and weighed one hundred pounds. If I stood sideways and stuck out my tongue, I looked like a zipper. Still, I earned a halfback spot on the JV team for McLoughlin Junior High School.

Then it happened. We were running a scrimmage with full pads. The play was called, and the quarterback jammed the ball in my gut. But the gap between the tackle and guard was rudely filled by the biggest, fastest, and strongest lineman on the squad. He looked like a shadowy phantom for his mass eclipsed the setting sun.

If I had known then what I know now, I would have bounced sideways to avoid the terrible hulk. But that evasive tactic had never been mentioned by our coach, Mr. Stapler. So, I slammed directly into the beast, or rather he into me.

I did not see stars; I saw constellations.

At that very moment—no, that very nanosecond—I had a life-changing epiphany. Flat on my back, with my chest concaved, my eyes still twirling, I said to myself, “I . . . am going to be . . . a scholar.”

But it’s one thing to say you’ll do something; it’s quite another to actually do it. Somehow—through ego or grit or divine intervention—I followed through.

From that day forward, I carried my books home and, first things first, marched to my room to do my homework. I followed that routine month after month, year after year.

When I graduated from Pasco High School, I was one of the top fifteen scholars in my class. When I graduated from college, I was enrolled in Phi Beta Kappa and elected to Who’s Who Among Students in American Colleges and Universities.

There is a saying: “When the going gets tough, the tough get going.” That may be true for some. But for me, the answer was bouncing sideways to find a gap where I could bust through and drive for the goalposts. I would never be a great football player; I neither had the frame nor the agility. But I did have a dream, a decent brain, and the resolve to chip away at the challenges—flake by flake. And that knowledge has made all the difference.

Finally, lest you think this story pretentious, I freely admit my success is meager in the grand scheme of things. After all, I’m a rather insignificant pollywog in the sea of humanity. But that’s not the point. The point is finding the right gap—one that allowed this pollywog to become . . . a full-grown frog.

ABOUT THE IMAGE: This Who’s Who Among Students photograph was taken in 1968 for the Northwest Nazarene College annual. The trophies were garnered for my intercollegiate wins in oral interpretation and public speaking. The image of the old man in the beard is a portrait of me as Shylock in NNC’s production of Shakespeare’s Merchant of Venice.

On Lessons Learned

 Nineteen sixty-eight was a big year for me. I graduated from college, married my sweetheart, and accepted a position to teach speech, drama, and English at Kelso High School. At twenty-one, I was so dewy-eyed I couldn’t leave class without a hall pass—portending why I bonded so readily with my students.

This weekend, I shared a barbeque dinner with three of my former scholars: Pat, Mike, and Hud. As stars salted the firmament, our conversation drifted to more serious subjects.

“It’s been fifty years since you graduated from high school,” I said. “When you think about your experiences and what is yet to come, what lessons would you offer your classmates?”

It was a heavy-duty question, which is my style. I can only tolerate so much blather about Seattle Seahawks, physical decline, and grandbabies destined for fame and fortune. I’m intrigued by existential insights, which is not everyone’s groove.

The boys squirmed, then, out of loyalty or common courtesy, began to unwind.

Hud, who is the director of a recovery center for those struggling with addiction or mental malaise, broke the ice. “Take nothing for granted,” he said. “I lost my Fran three years ago. Her death was so sudden and unexpected, I’m still shaken. And when I left that awful morning for work, I’m not sure I told her I loved her. That still haunts me.” He paused. “Never underprize the people you love.”

After we all took a long breath, I turned to Pat, a former wrestling and football coach. In gridiron fashion, he said, “Never give up. Keep growing, keep learning, keep paying back.”

We nodded in agreement.

I then looked to Mike, the funniest man I know, a taste of which can be found in his semi-autobiographical novel. His career highlight was counseling high school seniors and garnering well over a million dollars in scholarships for the young men and women he loved. “Find your passion,” he said.

It was my turn. “The more we observe the more we see; the more we listen, the more we hear. And when we do—when we truly see and listen—we expand our treasury of empathy and compassion.”

I saw Hud rock in approval.

“It’s like this,” I continued. “When we listen and observe wholeheartedly, we come to know the other, not as a director, a coach, or a counselor, but as a human being with both vices and virtues. We throw off judgment in favor of understanding. Only then we become kindred spirits—where class, import, and one-upmanship vanish.”

The conversation continued late into the night: an evening rife with laughter, goodwill, and love for one another—and, invariably, one more round of stories about crackerjack grandchildren.

THE IMAGE: The next morning, Pat and I cycled twenty-two miles from Issaquah to Bothell and back along a bucolic bike trail that followed the Sammamish River. It was a glorious day. At one point, we spotted a blue heron fishing on the opposite river bank. I quickly reached for my camera and eased forward, knowing the wading bird would eventually take flight. When he did, Pat shouted, “Get him!” And I did. 

What Happens After Death?

 In Senegal, the polite expression to mark someone’s death is “his or her library has burned.” That is to say, all the knowledge and experiences of the departed have gone up in smoke.

But not so fast. If you think about it, each slender act of kindness may endure beyond the grave.

In 1964, I was a freshman at Columbia Basin College in Pasco, Washington. The course was English composition 101. While waiting for class to begin, a classmate asked me to explain the secret to writing well (as if I knew). He must have ignited my ego because I cleared my voice to speak.

“I think it has to do with rhythm,” I said. “Does it feel right in your mouth when you read your words aloud?”

Overhearing our conversation, the professor looked at me, nodded, smiled, and said, “Yes.” That was all. A single word.

Although my idea struck me as commonplace, the instructor’s grin made me think I might become a writer after all. That spark was the beginning of my quest.

These days, my ongoing mission is to share a paragraph of knowledge from my library of words and pictures. If I’m lucky, a seed may take root in someone’s heart and thereby preserve a snippet of reason or folly from my museum of experiences. Although meager, what a joy to give, especially in light of the fortune received.

THE IMAGE: The winter photograph taken at the Yakima Delta carries a treasury of knowledge: the play of darkness and light, the tribal behavior of species, the wonderment of nature. This (and nearly every image I capture), enriches my library.

The Secret to a Long and Happy Marriage

 I’ve been wondering how it’s possible my wife, Nita, and I have remained married for over fifty-two years. Especially, given our conspicuous differences. Then it hit me. Together we make a dynamite team.

To apply a metaphor coined by the American author and educator Stephen Covey, think of marriage as an iceberg with its modest tower of ice atop a tremendous mass hidden below the surface. The tower represents the personality ethic while the metropolis below depicts the character ethic. 

Personality is what everyone sees. When a couple says they fell in love on first sight, they’re talking about personality: good looks, a striking pose, a confident manner.

Character—that great mass below the surface—represents the emotional and moral qualities of the marriage. The couple’s character is measured by their depth of integrity, loyalty, and trustworthiness. Compared to the personality ethic, the character ethic is vastly more important.

Here’s the upshot: I’ve always been good at the personality ethic. I know how to charm, how to put on a show, how to create, and how to make sure everyone sees me in the best light—with my eyes shining and my smile ready to bowl them over.

But I could be better at the character ethic—a lot better. That’s where Nita shines. She is slow to anger, reluctant to vilify, quick to empathize, and loyal to the core.

So, there you have it. I won’t say together we make a single world-class human being; that would undercut our respective humanity. Consequently, I never discredit Nita for having a reserved personality ethic; nor does she discredit me for—ahem—having a shaky character ethic. What I will say is together we make a damn good marriage. And I’d like to think we’re both better for the union—I know I am.

As Consistent as a Sunrise

Think about the moment the sun nips at the horizon, diffusing its orange, yellow, and white light on the canvas we call earth. Scarfing the shadows, the slow reveal of landscape is always breathtaking.  For well over 27,000 days in a row, I’ve been greeted by the rising sun. Although her pallet of colors may vary—sometimes golden, sometimes scarlet—she’s always consistent.

But what about people? Are we consistent? The answer is . . . it depends.

Anyone can be consistent when the sun is shining. But in hard times—whether sparked by misfortune or irresponsibility—consistency requires dedication to the four human endowments. More about that in a moment. But first, let me explain how people routinely handle challenges.

Recently, I met a man who was haunted by the early death of his best friend who was killed in a drug war.

“My friend was a crackhead,” he said, “and so was I. But not anymore.”

“Although your friend’s death was a cruel ending, did it make you a better man?” I asked.

“It did. I’d be dead today if it were not for his death.”

Although he said no more, I believe the event was a “wake-up call”—one that hopefully changed his life for the better.

But living from one traumatic event to the next is like waiting for your car to die on the freeway for lack of gasoline—reactive thinking. And what happens when misfortune or stupidity strikes again? Will it take another unbearable wake-up call to overcome the assault?

We need a better strategy for managing hardships and missteps—something proactive. Enter the four human endowments: awareness, conscience, visualization, and independent will. I’ll explain through a hypothetical example.

Imagine you have a dear, though alcoholic friend, who’s been sober for the last five years. Despite his progress, you’ve stewed in silence as though you preferred to be angry.

Now, imagine firing up your four human endowments:

1. You toss out your judgmental filters and become aware of your friend’s impressive headway.
2. You listen to your conscience—that small voice of wisdom within us all—which tells you it’s time to praise his victory over addiction.
3. You visualize what needs to be done—just as a springboard diver visualizes a twisting somersault before striding to the end of the board.
4. You employ your independent will by putting one foot before the other, knocking on his door, acknowledging his commitment to sobriety, and embracing him with all your heart.

Can we be as thrilling and consistent as a sunrise? We can, but only if we put our minds to it. It’s not always easy—ego is a stubborn fellow—but when we do, the view is unforgettable. 

My Reincarnation Wish

 

I can’t say I believe in reincarnation. I’m happy with the life I’ve lived. But if I arrive at a heavenly front desk, and I’m invited to make my next choice in life, I might choose to be—wait for it—an American white pelican.

They seem to have an idyllic existence and not one terribly different from my life as a homo sapiens.

Take their two-fold approach to courting:  (a) circling flights on thermal drafts and (b) strutting dances at a nesting bungalow. Admittedly, I never romanced a mate by twirling in midair, although there was that girl in college who had me spinning out of control—but that’s another story. On the other hand, I have strutted. I can still see myself leaning against my 1968 lime-frosted Mercury Cougar with its optional landau vinyl top. Comparatively speaking, that has to be as sexy as a two-foot-wide nest set in the sand for a pelican mistress.

The big birds are a gregarious lot, often traveling and foraging in large flocks. And, get this, pelicans sometimes form a column on the water, dip their bills, and flap their wings to drive fish toward shore. It’s their way of corralling their prey for dinner. People have used a similar technique with the added benefit of a net since the beginning of recorded time. And I’ve certainly shared a small boat with a friend or two with a fishing pole in hand. That said, unlike pelicans, I have not tasted tadpoles or crayfish or salamanders, but I have eaten snails, oysters, and sushi of unknown ancestry, so being pelicanized in my next life does not seem like a giant leap.

Mostly, I’m captivated by the bird’s nine-foot wingspan and aeronautical prowess. Pelicans can fly 40
mph at heights of 25,000 feet and water-ski onto a water’s surface by virtue of their webbed feet. In comparison, I can jump one foot off the ground and maybe walk a twenty-minute mile (recalculations required after the first lap).

So, yes, the possibility of being a strutting, sushi-eating, soaring flyboy does appeal to me, which may account for my love for photographing the bucket-beaked wonders.

These two images were taken on the Yakima Delta Habitat near Richland, Washington. The photograph that looks like five birds in flight was actually a timelapse image of a single pelican who was peeved by my proximity. I called him “Sam.” I like to think he and I could become fast feathered friends in my next life, soaring over Mount Rainier and back again to the Yakima Delta. On the other hand, I could return as a frog, be scooped up by Sam, and swallow in a single slurp. Now that’s just rude.