Hurting Baggage

From where I sit I don’t see all that much, even though I’m busy watching.  The problem, as Atticus Finch would say, is that you can’t really know someone until you’ve walked in his shoes. I’ve heard the same thing said in more than one western movie, talking about moccasins instead.

Over the last week, a neighbor—someone I met almost a year ago when she was living in a home she still owns to the south near Cloud Croft—told me about the eye-opening experience she’s having as a worker bee for Trader Joe’s. From where I stand, TJ’s is a huge draw for the neurotics of this place. I’ve seen more than one instance of the world coming unhinged at the checkout counter, and many of the people move through the place, so focused on their own mission, that they just look at you or through you or past you, rather than give an inch in the crowded aisles of this California-based market that draws droves of Santa Fe shoppers.

Aside from the staff of Trader Joe’s, which is trained to expertise in customer service, I’ve seen very little warmth in this popular market. Exception—last December, a friend from Dallas, stopping to visit as she was passing through to the Albuquerque airport, stood with me in line on a crowded mid-week afternoon. As we visited, I noticed an older woman—probably someone just a bit older than I—wrangling with the checker over the price of a group of like items she was buying. As I recall, she thought the price was lower than what the computer system was programmed to charge. Maybe she was right. I don’t know. She was just one more example of what I’ve noticed. I logged her in my brain and continued to talk with my friend Reid. As we waited, the woman in front of us asked if we were local. I love it when this happens. We explained that we are Texan, adding that I have a place in Santa Fe. “I thought you were Texans. You are so friendly,” she revealed, adding that she and her husband were moving to Austin where he would teach at the University of Texas.

The staff at Trader Joe’s excels in friendliness, open willingness to guide and to answer questions, from the aisles to the checkout counter. Twice recently, the same woman, while scanning my purchases, has asked with a big grin if I’m old enough to drink the wine I’m purchasing.

My neighbor, who has been working at TJ’s for awhile now, since renting a condo here in Santa Fe, described a couple of incidents where the customer has been unusually rude. Not that it matters that this neighbor holds a couple of college degrees, a real estate license, and like so many in this place works hard at more than one job, we should all be equal when it comes to the respect we offer one another. Nonetheless, she has been bruised by the arrogant and the angry, and she’s had to have talks with management, once as she attempted to head off the boss at the pass in her defense.

So she asked her boss the other day, “What are you supposed to do when someone treats you shabbily?” Just let it go, he advised, adding that most times people who mistreat someone in a rather anonymous circumstance are in a whole lot of hurt themselves. As a manager, he’s learned to defuse situations by just letting the customer have her say, or his, and not taking anyone’s frustration or anger personally. Turn the other cheek, my mother used to like quoting from the Gospels, although she too often let things eat at her heart after turning that cheek. There must be a second part to letting others be who they need to be at any given moment, and it must have something important to do with how much we genuinely love ourselves.

As my neighbor and I were returning from a hike in the mountains this afternoon, we had ranged across a vast number of topics, including the too-often rude behavior of people in this high desert place. As we made our way toward the village of Tesuque, driving slowly down a narrow, twisting, mountain blacktop, we noticed a FOR SALE by owner sign, and stopped to see the price. “BLAAT,” the horn of a Mercedes SUV assaulted us from the rear. My instinct was to hit the gas, and then I just stopped, daring the driver to hit the horn again. We drove on to Santa Fe, trying to decide on a place where we could eat healthfully for a modest tab. On Guadalupe I found myself caught in the left lane behind cars waiting to make a left turn. As I attempted to move to the right lane, the driver of a small call laid down on the horn, and as he passed shot me the finger.

Twice today I wanted to get out of my car and whip the crap out of someone--that from a guy who will totally change directions to avoid a confrontation. Once today I let someone know that his, or her, behavior was unacceptable to me. I didn’t get a second chance. I know profoundly that I have laid my baggage on more than a few innocent, or not so innocent, people on my journey. And as I try to remember that I shouldn’t take things personally, that I shouldn’t take out my frustration and anger on others, that I should sometimes turn the other cheek, I shake my head in puzzlement and disappointment to witness, experience, and consider the hurt we all carry around, a hurt that is just waiting to be uncapped. Turn the cheek, take the high road, take a deep, restorative breath. Maybe, just take Trader Joe’s employee training to equip me for continuing on this journey.

Hurting Baggage—Santa Fe, New Mexico (June 18, 2008)

R. Harold Hollis